slip 

ill 


MI 


|Ie:  '  3m 

POEMS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022318671 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


ps  1830 
1887 


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THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

BRET  HARTE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

1887 


Copyright,  1870, 1871,  and  1874, 
Br  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE  ! 
ELECTROTYPE!)    AND  PRINTED 
H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

PAGB 

San  Francisco,  from  the  Sea   3 

The  Angelus   6 

The  Mountain  Heart's-Ease   8 

Grizzly   10 

Madrono      ..........  12 

Coyote   14 

To  a  Sea-Bird   15 

Her  Letter   17 

Dickens  in  Camp       ........  21 

What  the  Engines  said   24 

"  The  Return  of  Belisarius  "   27 

"  Twenty  Years  "   29 

Fate   31 

In  Dialect. 

"Jim"    .   32 

Chiquita   35 

Dow's  Flat   38 

In  the  Tunnel   42 

"  Cicely  "      .      .      .      .      ,      .      .      .  .45 

Penelope   50 

Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James       .       .  52 

The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus     ...  55 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Poems  from  1860  to  1868. 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg   58 

The  Tale  of  a  Pony   63 

The  Miracle  of  Padre  Junipero    .       .      .  .68 

An  Arctic  Vision   72 

To  the  Pliocene  Skull   76 

The  Ballad  of  the  Emeu   79 

The  Aged  Stranger   82 

"  How  are  you,  Sanitary  ?  "        ....  84 

The  Reveille   86 

Our  Privilege   88 

Relieving  Guard   90 

Parodies. 

A  Geological  Madrigal   91 

The  Willows   93 

North  Beach   97 

The  Lost  Tails  of  Miletus   99 

EAST  AND  WEST  POEMS. 
I. 

A  Greyport  Legend  103 

A  Newport  Romance   106 

The  Hawk's  Nest                                      .   •   .  110 

In  the  Mission  Garden   113 

The  Old  Major  explains   .116 

"Seventy-Nine"   119 

Truthful  James's  Answer  to  "her  Letter"    .  .  123 

Further  Language  from  Truthful  James      .      .  127 

The  Wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin     .      .  .  131 

On  a  Cone  of  the  Big  Trees   13$ 


CONTENTS.  r 

A  Sanitary  Message   139 

The  Copperhead   .       .      .      .  •           .      .       .  141 

On  a  Pen  op  Thomas  Starr  King       ....  143 

Lone  Mountain   144 

California's  Greeting  to  Seward      ....  146 

The  Two  Ships   148 

The  Goddess      .       .       .       ......  149 

Address   152 

The  Lost  Galleon   155 

A  Second  Review  op  the  Grand  Army  .      .       .  163 

II. 

Before  the  Curtain       .       .      .      *       .      .  .167 

The  Stage-Driver's  Story   168 

Aspiring  Miss  De  Laine   172 

California  Madrigal   180 

St.  Thomas  .182 

Ballad  of  Mr.  Cooke   185 

The  Legends  of  the  Rhine   191 

Mrs.  Judge  Jenkins  :  Sequel  to  Maud  Muller    .  194 

Avitor   197 

A  White-Pine  Ballad   199 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood   202 

The  Ritualist   203 

A  Moral  Vindicator      .......  205 

Songs  without  Sense   207 

ECHOES  OF  THE  EOOT-HILLS. 
Spanish  Idyls. 

CONCEPCION  DE  ArGUELLO   213 

Ramon   222 

Tor  the  King   225 


vi 


contents- 


Dot*  Diego  of  the  South    .  234 

#riar  Pedro's  Ride  .                                 .  239 

At  the  Hacienda   246 

In  Dialect. 

Luke   247 

Truthful  James  to  the  Editor        .      .      .  253 

"The  Babes  in  the  Woods"   256 

After  the  Accident   260 

The  Ghost  that  Jim  saw   263 

The  Idyl  of  Battle  Hollow     ....  266 

Miscellaneous  Poems. 

Miss  Blanche  says   269 

Half  an  Hour  before  Supper    ...  274 

Dolly  Varden    .       .   277 

What  thk  Chimney  sang     .  280 

Guild's  Signal  .      .   282 

Caldwell  of  Springfield   284 

Grandmother  Tenterden   28? 

Anniversary  Poem        .      .             .      .      .  291 

Battle  Bunny  •  295 

What  the  Bullet  Sang   298 

The  Latest  Chinese  Outrage      ....  300 

An  Idyl  of  the  Road   306 

Thompson  of  Angels   310 

Alnasciiar   314 

Telemachus  versus  Mentor   31"? 

A  Legend  of  Cologne   322 

Off  Scarborough   334 

Master  Johnny's  Next-door  Neighbor    .      .  340 

Miss  Edith's  Modest  Request      .      .      .  343 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Miss  Edith  makes  it  Pleasant  for  Brother 

Jack   347 

Miss  Edith  makes  Another  Friend     .      .      .  350 

On  the  Landing   353 

Cadet  Grey       .            *   356 


POEMS. 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 

FROM  THE  SEA. 

Serene,  indifferent  of  Fate, 
Thou  sittest  at  the  Western  Gate  ; 

Upon  thy  heights  so  lately  won 
Still  slant  the  banners  of  the  sun ; 

Thou  seest  the  white  seas  strike  their  tents, 
O  Warder  of  two  Continents ! 

And  scornful  of  the  peace  that  flies 
Thy  angry  winds  and  sullen  skies, 

»   Thou  drawest  all  things,  small  or  great, 
To  thee,  beside  the  Western  Gate. 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 

0  lion's  whelp,  that  hidest  fast 

In  jungle  growth  of  spire  and  mast, 

1  know  thy  cunning  and  thy  greed, 
Thy  hard  high  lust  and  wilful  deed, 

And  all  thy  glory  loves  to  tell 
Of  specious  gifts  material. 

Drop  down,  O  fleecy  Fog,  and  hide 
Her  sceptic  sneer,  and  all  her  pride  ! 

Wrap  her,  O  Fog,  in  gown  and  hood 
Of  her  Franciscan  Brotherhood. 

Hide  me  her  faults,  her  sin  and  blame ; 
With  thy  gray  mantle  cloak  her  shame ! 

So  shall  she,  cowled,  sit  and  pray 
Till  morning  bears  her  sins  away. 

Then  rise,  O  fleecy  Fog,  and  raise 
The  glory  of  her  coming  days ; 

Be  as  the  cloud  that  flecks  the  seas 
Above  her  smoky  argosies. 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 


When  forms  familiar  shall  give  place 
To  stranger  speech  and  newer  face ; 

When  all  her  throes  and  anxious  fears 
Lie  hushed  in  the  repose  of  years  ; 

When  Art  shall  raise  and  Culture  lift 
The  sensual  joys  and  meaner  thrift, 

And  all  fulfilled  the  vision,  we 

Who  watch  and  wait  shall  never  see,  — 

Who,  in  the  morning  of  her  race, 
Toiled  fair  or  meanly  in  our  place,  — 

But,  yielding  to  the  common  lot, 
Lie  unrecorded  and  forgot. 


THE  ANGELUS, 


HEARD  AT  THE  MISSION  DOLORES,  1868. 

Bells  of  the  Past,  whose  long-forgotten  music 

Still  fills  the  wide  expanse, 
Tingeing  the  sober  twilight  of  the  Present 

With  color  of  romance  : 

I  hear  your  call,  and  see  the  sun  descending 

On  rock  and  wave  and  sand, 
As  down  the  coast  the  Mission  voices  blending 

Girdle  the  heathen  land. 

Within  the  circle  of  your  incantation 

No  blight  nor  mildew  falls ; 
Nor  fierce  unrest,  nor  lust,  nor  low  ambition 

Passes  those  airy  walls. 

Borne  on  the  swell  of  your  long  waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past,  — 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  dream  and  last ! 


THE  AX  GEL  US. 


7 


Before  me  rise  the  dome-shaped  Mission  towers, 

The  white  Presidio ; 
The  swart  commander  in  his  leathern  jerkin, 

The  priest  in  stole  of  snow. 

Once  more  I  see  Portala's  cross  uplifting 

Above  the  setting  sun  ; 
And  past  the  headland,  northward,  slowly  drifting 

The  freighted  galleon. 

0  solemn  bells!  whose  consecrated  masses 

Recall  the  faith  of  old,  — 
0  tinkling  bells  !  that  lulled  with  twilight  music 
'The  spiritual  fold ! 

Tour  voices  break  and  falter  in  the  darkness,  — 

Break,  falter,  and  are  still ; 
And  veiled  and  mystic,  like  the  Host  descending, 

The  sun  sinks  from  the  hill  ! 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HEART' S-EASE. 


By  scattered  rocks  and  turbid  waters  shifting, 

By  furrowed  glade  and  dell, 
To  feverish  men  thy  calm,  sweet  face  uplifting, 

Thou  stayest  them  to  tell 

The  delicate  thought,  that  cannot  find  expression, 

For  ruder  speech  too  fair, 
That,  like  thy  petals,  trembles  in  possession, 

And  scatters  on  the  air. 

The  miner  pauses  in  his  rugged  labor, 

And,  leaning  on  his  spade, 
Laughingly  calls  unto  his  comrade-neighbor 

To  see  thy  charms  displayed ; 

But  in  his  eyes  a  mist  unwonted  rises, 

And  for  a  moment  clear, 
Some  sweet  home  face  his  foolish  thought  surprises 

And  passes  in  a  tear,  — 

Some  boyish  vision  of  his  Eastern  village, 
Of  uneventful  toil, 


THE  MOUNTAIN  HEARTS-EASE. 


Where  golden  harvests  followed  quiet  tillage 
Above  a  peaceful  soil : 

One  moment  only,  for  the  pick,  uplifting, 
Through  root  and  fibre  cleaves, 

And  on  the  muddy  current  slowly  drifting 
Are  swept  thy  bruised  leaves. 

And  yet,  O  poet,  in  thy  homely  fashion, 

Thy  work  thou  dost  fulfil, 
For  on  the  turbid  current  of  his  passion 

Thy  face  is  shining  still ! 


GRIZZLY. 


Coward,  —  of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise  ; 
Savage,  —  whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks  ; 
Robber,  —  whose  exploits  ne'er  soared 
O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard  ; 
Whiskered  chin,  and  feeble  nose, 
Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes,  — 
Here,  in  solitude  and  shade, 
Shambling,  shuffling,  plantigrade, 
Be  thy  courses  undismayed  ! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half-human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs. 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets,  — 
Epicurean  retreats, 


GRIZZLY. 


Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 

In  thy  fat-jowled  deviltry- 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee ; 
Thou  mayest  levy  tithe  and  dole ; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 
From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll ; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear ; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill ; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still ! 


MADRONO. 


Captain  of  the  Western  wood, 
Thou  that  apest  Robin  Hood  1 
Green  above  thy  scarlet  hose, 
How  thy  velvet  mantle  shows  ; 
Never  tree  like  thee  arrayed, 
O  thou  gallant  of  the  glade  ! 

When  the  fervid  August  sun 
Scorches  all  it  looks  upon, 
And  the  balsam  of  the  pine 
Drips  from  stem  to  needle  fine, 
Round  thy  compact  shade  arranged, 
Not  a  leaf  of  thee  is  changed ! 

When  the  yellow  autumn  sun 
Saddens  all  it  looks  upon, 
Spreads  its  sackcloth  on  the  hills, 
Strews  its  ashes  in  the  rills, 
Thou  thy  scarlet  hose  dost  doll, 
And  in  limbs  of  purest  buff 
Challen^est  the  sombre  unlade 
For  a  sylvan  masquerade. 


MADRONO. 


Where,  oh  where,  shall  he  begin 
Who  would  paint  thee,  Harlequin  ? 
With  thy  waxen  burnished  leaf, 
With  thy  branches'  red  relief, 
With  thy  poly-tinted  fruit, 
In  thy  spring  or  autumn  suit,  — 
Where  begin,  and  oh,  where  end,  — 
Thou  whose  charms  ail  art  transcend  ? 


COYOTE. 


Blown  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew, 
Half  bold  and  half  timid,  yet  lazy  all  through ; 
Loath  ever  to  leave,  and  yet  fearful  to  stay, 
He  limps  in  the  clearing,  —  an  outcast  in  gray. 

A  shade  on  the  stubble,  a  ghost  by  the  wall, 
Now  leaping,  now  limping,  now  risking  a  fall, 
Lop-eared  and  large-jointed,  but  ever  alway 
A  thoroughly  vagabond  outcast  in  gray. 

Here,  Carlo,  old  fellow,  —  he 's  one  of  your  kind,  — 
Go,  seek  him,  and  bring  him  in  out  of  the  wind. 
What !  snarling,  my  Carlo !    So  —  even  dogs  may 
Deny  their  own  kin  in  the  outcast  in  gray. 

Well,  take  what  you  will,  —  though  it  be  on  the  sly, 
Marauding,  or  begging,  —  I  shall  not  ask  why  ; 
But  will  call  it  a  dole,  just  to  help  on  his  way 
A  four-footed  friar  in  orders  of  gray  ! 


TO  A  SEA-BIRD. 

SANTA  CRUZ,  1869. 

Sauntering  hither  on  listless  wings, 

Careless  vagabond  of  the  sea, 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that  sings, 
The  bar  that  thunders,  the  shale  that  rings,  — 
Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that 's  new, 
Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things  to  thee ; 

Sick  am  I  of  these  changes,  too  ; 

Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue,  — 
I  our  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me ; 
All  of  my  journeyings  end  them  here, 
This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer,  — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast, 

Something  in  common,  old  friend,  have  we ; 


TO  A  SEA-BIRD. 


Thou  on  the  shingle  seek'st  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest,  — 
I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 


HER  LETTER. 


I 'm  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  came  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire,  — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France ; 
I 'm  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue : 
In  short,  sir,  u  the  belle  of  the  season 99 

Is  wasting  an  hour  on  you. 

A  dozen  engagements  I  've  broken  ; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits  —  on  the  stairs  — ■  for  me  yet. 
They  say  he  '11  be  rich,  —  when  he  grows  up, 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed. 
And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 

Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 


4<  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  ?  " 
"And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York?" 


HER  LETTER, 


"And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk  ?  " 

"  And  is  n't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds  and  silks,  and  all  that  ?  " 

"  And  are  n't  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 
And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat  ?  " 

Well,  yes,  —  if  you  saw  us  out  driving 

Each  day  in  the  park,  four-in-hand,  — 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 

To  look  supernaturally  grand,  — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 

By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that,  — 
You 'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 

And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 

In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier,  — 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "  finest  soiree  of  the  year,"  — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  Chamber?/, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk,  — 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "  Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "  The  Fork ; 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster 
Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 


HER  LETTER. 


Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 
And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl ; 

Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle  ; 
Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-a-vis  ; 

And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 
With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  Mc£ree ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 

On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go  ; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 

From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow  ; 
Of  that  ride,  —  that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 

Of  —  the  something  you  said  at  the  gate. 
Ah,  Joe,  then  I  was  n't  an  heiress 

To  "  the  best-paying  lead  in  the  State." 

Well,  well,  it 's  all  past ;  yet  it 's  funny 

To  think,  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking,  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 

And  swam  the  North  Fork,  and  all  that, 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folinsbee's  daughter, 

The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness  !  what  nonsense  I 'm  writing ! 
(Mamma  says  my  taste  still  is  low,) 


HER  LETTER. 


Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I 'm  spooning  on  Joseph,  —  heigh-ho ! 

And  I 'm  to  be  "  finished  "  by  travel,  — 
Whatever 's  the  meaning  of  that,  — 

Oh,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 
In  dri|ting  on  Poverty  Flat? 

Good  night,  —  here 's  the  end  of  my  paper ; 

Good  night,  —  if  the  longitude  please, — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  taper, 

Tour  sun 's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  have  n't  got  riches, 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart 's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches, 

And  you 've  struck  it,  —  on. Poverty  Flat. 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew  ; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "  Little  Nell." 


22 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP 


Perhaps 't  was  boyish  fancy,  —  for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all,  — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp,  with  "  Nell "  on  English  mead- 
ows, 

Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes  —  o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine  — 
Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  : 
And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  ?  — 

Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 
Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 

Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 

That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  intwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly,  — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine ! 
July,  1870 


WHAT  THE  ENGINES  SAID. 


OPENING  OF  THE  PACIFIC  RAILROAD. 

What  was  it  tho  Engines  said, 
Pilots  touching,  —  head  to  head 
Facing  on  the  single  track, 
Half  a  world  behind  each  back? 
This  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread  ! 

With  a  prefatory  screech, 
In  a  florid  Western  speech, 
Said  the  Engine  from  the  WEST : 
"  I  am  from  Sierra's  crest ; 
And,  if  altitude  's  a  test, 
Why,  I  reckon,  it  \s  confessed, 
That  I 've  done  my  level  best." 

Said  the  Engine  from  the  EAST: 
"  They  who  work  best  talk  the  least. 
S'pose  you  whistle  down  your  brakes ; 
What  you 've  done  is  no  great  shakes,  — 


WHAT  THE  ENGINES  SAID. 


Pretty  fair,  —  but  let  our  meeting 
Be  a  different  kind  of  greeting. 
Let  these  folks  with  champagne  stuffing, 
Not  their  Engines,  do  the  puffing. 

et  Listen  !    Where  Atlantic  beats 
Shores  of  snow  and  summer  heats ; 
Where  the  Indian  autumn  skies 
Paint  the  woods  with  wampum  dyes, 
I  have  chased  the  flying  sun, 
Seeing  all  he  looked  upon, 
Blessing  all  that. he  has  blest, 
Nursing  in  my  iron  breast 
All  his  vivifying  heat, 
All  his  clouds  about  my  crest ; 
And  before  my  flying  feet 
Every  shadow  must  retreat" 

Said  the  Western  Engine,  "  Phew !  " 
And  a  long  low  whistle  blew. 
"  Come  now,  really  that 's  the  oddest 
Talk  for  one  so  very  modest,  — 
You  brag  of  your  East !     You  do  ? 
Why,  7  bring  the  East  to  you  ! 
All  the  Orient,  all  Cathay, 
Find  through  me  the  shortest  way, 
And  the  sun  you  follow  here 
Rises  in  my  hemisphere. 


WHAT  THE  ENGINES  SAID. 


Really,  —  if  one  must  be  rude,  — 
Length,  my  friend,  ain't  longitude." 

Said  the  Union,  "  Don't  reflect,  or 
I  '11  run  over  some  Director." 
Said  the  Central,  "  I 'm  Pacific, 
But,  when  riled,  I 'm  quite  terrific. 
Yet  to-day  we  shall  not  quarrel, 
Just  to  show  these  folks  this  moral, 
How  two  Engines  —  in  their  vision 
Once  have  met  without  collision." 

That  is  what  the  Engines  said, 
Unreported  and  unread ; 
Spoken  slightly  through  the  nose, 
With  a  whistle  at  the  close. 


\ 


« THE  RETURN  OF  BELISARIUS." 

MUD  FLAT,  I860- 

So  you  're  back  from  your  travels,  old  fellow, 

And  you  left  but  a  twelvemonth  ago ; 
You 've  hobnobbed  with  Louis  Napoleon, 

Eugenie,  and  kissed  the  Pope's  toe. 
By  Jove,  it  is  perfectly  stunning, 

Astounding,  — and  all  that,  you  know ; 
Yes,  things  are  about  as  you  left  them 

In  Mud  Flat  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

The  boys  !  —  They  're  all  right,  —  Oh !  Dick  Ashley, 

He 's  buried  somewhere  in  the  snow ; 
He  was  lost  on  the  Summit,  last  winter, 

And  Bob  has  a  hard  row  to  hoe. 
You  knew  that  he 's  got  the  consumption  ? 

You  did  n't !    Well,  come,  that 's  a  go  ; 
I  certainly  wrote  you  at  Baden,  — 

Dear  me  !  that  was  six  months  ago. 

I  got  all  your  outlandish  letters, 
All  stamped  by  some  foreign  P.  O. 


"THE  RETURN  OF  BELISARIUS." 

I  handed  myself  to  Miss  Mary 
That  sketch  of  a  famous  chateau. 

Tom  Saunders  is  living  at  'Frisco, — 
They  say  that  he  cuts  quite  a  show. 

You  did  n't  meet  Euchre-deck  Billy 
Anywhere  on  your  road  to  Cairo  ? 

So  you  thought  of  the  rusty  old  cabin, 

The  pines,  and  the  valley  below ; 
And  heard  the  North  Fork  of  the  Yuba, 

As  you  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Po  ? 
'T  was  just  like  your  romance,  old  fellow  ; 

But  now  there  is  standing  a  row 
Of  stores  on  the  site  of  the  cabin 

That  you  lived  in  a  twelvemonth  ago. 

But  it  9s  jolly  to  see  you,  old  fellow,  — • 

To  think  it 's  a  twelvemonth  ago  ! 
And  you  have  seen  Louis  Napoleon, 

And  look  like  a  Johnny  Crapaud. 
Come  in.    You  will  surely  see  Mary, — 

You  know  we  are  married.  What,  no? 
Oh,  ay.    I  forgot  there  was  something 

Between  you  a  twelvemonth  ago. 


"TWENTY  YEARS." 


Beg  your  pardon,  old  fellow  !  I  think 

I  was  dreaming  just  now,  when  you  spoke. 

The  fact  is,  the  musical  clink 

Of  the  ice  on  your  wine-goblet's  brink 

A  chord  of  my  memory  woke. 

And  I  stood  in  the  pasture-field  where 
Twenty  summers  ago  I  had  stood ; 
And  I  heard  in  that  sound,  I  declare, 
The  clinkings  of  bells  on  the  air, 
Of  the  cows  coming  home  from  the  wood. 

Then  the  apple-blooms  shook  on  the  hill ; 
And  the  mullein-stalks  tilted  each  lance  ; 
And  the  sun  behind  Rapalye's  mill 
Was  my  uttermost  West,  and  could  thrill 
Like  some  fanciful  land  of  romance. 

Then  my  friend  was  a  hero,  and  then 
My  girl  was  an  angel.    In  fine, 

% 


30 


"TWENTY  YEARS: 


I  drank  buttermilk  ;  for  at  ten 
Faith  asks  less  to  aid  her,  than  when 
At  thirty  we  doubt  over  wine. 

Ah  well,  it  does  seem  that  I  must 

Have  been  dreaming  just  now  when  you  spoke, 

Or  lost,  very  like,  in  the  dust 

Of  the  years  that  slow  fashioned  the  crust 

On  that  bottle  whose  seal  you  last  broke. 

Twenty  years  was  its  age,  did  you  say  ? 
Twenty  years  ?    Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  true  ! 
All  the  dreams  that  have  flown  since  that  day, 
All  the  hopes  in  that  time  passed  away, 
Old  friend,  I 've  been  drinking  with  you ! 


# 


FATE. 


"  The  sky  is  clouded,  the  rocks  are  bare  ; 
The  spray  of  the  tempest  is  white  in  air ; 
The  winds  are  out  with  the  waves  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  tempt  the  sea  to-day. 

"  The  trail  is  narrow,  the  wood  is  dim, 
The  panther  clings  to  the  arching  limb ; 
And  the  lion's  whelps  are  abroad  at  play, 
And  I  shall  not  join  in  the  chase  to-day." 

But  the  ship  sailed  safely  over  the  sea, 
And  the  hunters  came  from  the  chase  in  glee  ; 
And  the  town  that  was  builded  upon  a  rock 
Was  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake  shock. 


IN  DIALECT. 


"  JIM." 

Say  there !  PVaps 
Some  on  you  chaps 

Might  know  Jim  Wild  ? 
Well,  —  no  offence : 
Thar  ain't  no  sense 

In  gittin'  riled ! 

Jim  was  my  chum 

Up  on  the  Bar : 
That 's  why  I  come 

Down  from  up  yar, 
Lookin'  for  Jim. 
Thank  ye,  sir !  You 
Ain't  of  that  crew,  — 

Blest  if  you  are  ! 

Money  ?  —  Not  much  : 
That  ain't  my  kind  : 


«  JIM." 


33 


I  ain't  no  such. 

Rum  ?  —  I  don't  mind, 
Seein'  it 's  you. 

Well,  this  yer  Jim, 
Did  you  know  him  ?  — 
Jess  'bout  your  size  ; 
Same  kind  of  eyes  ?  — 
Well,  that  is  strange  : 
Why,  it 's  two  year 
Since  he  came  here, 
Sick,  for  a  change. 

Well,  here 's  to  us  : 
Eh? 

The  h  you  say  ! 

Dead  ?  — 
That  little  cuss  ? 

What  makes  you  star,  — 
You  over  thar  ? 
Can't  a  man  drop 
's  glass  in  yer  shop 
But  you  must  rar'  ? 
It  would  n't  take 

D-  much  to  break 

You  and  your  bar. 
3 


"JIM." 


Dead  I 
Poor  —  little — Jim  ! 
—  Why,  thar  was  me, 
Jones,  and  Bob  Lee, 
Harry  and  Ben,  — 
No-account  men : 
Then  to  take  him  ! 

Well,  thar  — Good  by, 
No  more,  sir,  — I  — 
Eh? 

What 's  that  you  say  ? 
Why,  dern  it !  —  sho  !  - 
No?    Yes!    By  Jo! 
Sold ! 

Sold  !  Why,  you  limb 
You  ornery, 

Derned  old 
Long-legged  Jim ! 


CHIQUITA. 


Beautiful  !    Sir,  you  may  say  so.    Thar  is  n't  her 

match  in  the  county. 
Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty  ? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  —  thar 's  velvet !  Whoa  !  Steady, 

—  ah,  will  you,  you  vixen  ! 
Whoa !  I  say.    Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman 

look  at  her  paces. 

Morgan  !  —  She  ain't  nothin'  else,  and  I  've  got  the  pa- 
pers- to  prove  it. 

Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars 
won't  buy  her. 

Briggs  of  Tuolumne  owned  her.  Did  you  know  Briggs 
of  Tuolumne  ?  — - 

Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains 
down  in  'Frisco  ? 

Hed  n't  no  savey  —  hed  Briggs.    Thar,  Jack  !  that '  11 

do,  —  quit  that  foolin'  ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do,  when  she 's  got  her  work 

cut  out  before  her. 


36  CHIQUITA. 

Hosses  is  hosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys 

is  jockeys ; 

And  't  ain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  boss 
has  got  in  him. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flani- 

gan's  leaders  ? 

Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in 
low  water  ! 

Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and 
his  nevey 

Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain,  and  the 
water  all  round  us  ; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek 
just  a  bilin', 

Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the 
river. 

I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his 

nevey,  Chiquita ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top 

of  the  canon. 

Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chi- 
quita 

Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and  afore  I  could  yell 
to  her  rider, 


CHIQUITA. 


37 


Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge 

and  me  standing, 
And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-fiesh  afloat  and  a 

driftin'  to  thunder  ! 

Would  ye  b'lieve  it?  that  night  that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 
Chiquita, 

Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet 
and  dripping  : 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Just  as  she  swam  the  Fork,  —  that  hoss,  that  ar'  filly, 
Chiquita. 

That 's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and  —    What  did  you  say  ? 

—  Oh,  the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,  I  reckon,  —  leastways,  he  never  kem  back 

to  deny  it. 

Ye  see  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat,  —  ye  could  n't  have 

made  him  a  rider ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  hosses  — 

well,  hosses  is  hosses  ! 


DOW'S  FLAT. 


1856. 

Dow's  flat.    That 's  its  name. 

And  I  reckon  that  you 
Are  a  stranger  ?    The  same  ? 
Well,  I  thought  it  was  true,  — 
For  thar  is  n't  a  man  on  the  river  as  can't  spot  the  place 
at  first  view. 

It  was  called  after  Dow,  — 

Which  the  same  was  an  ass,  — 
And  as  to  the  how 

Thet  the  thing  kem  to  pass,  — 
Jest  tie  up  your  hoss  to  that  buckeye,  and  sit  ye  down 
here  in  the  grass  : 

You  see  this  'yer  Dow 

Hed  the  worst  kind  of  luck  ; 
He  slipped  up  somehow 

On  each  thing  thet  he  struck. 
Why,  ef  he 'd  a  straddled  thet  fence-rail  the  derned 
thing  'ed  get  up  and  buck. 


DOW'S  FLAT. 


39 


He  mined  on  the  bar 

Till  he  could  n't  pay  rates  ; 
He  was  smashed  by  a  car 

When  he  tunnelled  with  Bates  ; 
And  right  on  the  top  of  his  trouble  kem  his  wife  and 
five  kids  from  the  States. 

It  was  rough,  —  mighty  rough  ; 

But  the  boys  they  stood  by, 
And  they  brought  him  the  stuff 
For  a  house,  on  the  sly  ; 
And  the  old  woman,  —  well,  she  did  washing,  and  took 
on  when  no  one  was  nigh. 

But  this  yer  luck  of  Dow's 

Was  so  powerful  mean 
That  the  spring  near  his  house 
Dried  right  up  on  the  green ; 
And  he  sunk  forty  feet  down  for  water,  but  nary  a  drop 
to  be  seen. 

Then  the  bar  petered  out, 

And  the  boys  would  n't  stay ; 
And  the  chills  got  about, 
And  his  wife  fell  away ; 
But  Dow,  iu  his  well,  kept  a  peggin'  in  his  usual  ridiki- 
lous  way- 


40 


DOW'S  FLAT. 


One  day,  —  it  was  J une,  — 
And  a  year  ago,  jest,  — 
This  Dow  kem  at  noon 
To  his  work  like  the  rest, 
With  a  shovel  and  pick  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  derringer 
hid  in  his  breast. 


He  goes  to  the  well, 

And  he  stands  on  the  brink, 
And  stops  for  a  spell 
Jest  to  listen  and  think : 
For  the  sun  in  his  eyes,  (jest  like  this,  sir  !)  you  see, 
kinder  made  the  cuss  blink. 


His  two  ragged  gals 

In  the  gulch  were  at  play, 
And  a  gownd  that  was  Sal's 
Kinder  flapped  on  a  bay : 
Not  much  for  a  man  to  be  leaving  but  his  all,  —  as  I  Ve 
heer'd  the  folks  say. 

And  —    That 's  a  peart  hoss 

Thet  you  Ve  got,  —  ain't  it  now  ? 
What  might  be  her  cost  ? 

Eh  ?  Oh  !  —  Well,  then,  Dow  — 
Let 's  see,  —  well,  that  forty -foot  grave  was  n't  his,  sir, 
that  day,  anyhow. 


VOW'S  FLAT.  41 

For  a  blow  of  his  pick 

Sorter  caved  in  the  side, 
And  he  looked  and  turned  sick, 
Then  he  trembled  and  cried. 
For  you  see  the  dern  cuss  had  struck  —  "  Water?  "  — 
Beg  your  parding,  young  man,  there  you  lied ! 


It  was  gold,  —  in  the  quartz, 

And  it  ran  all  alike  ; 
And  I  reckon  five  oughts 

Was  the  worth  of  that  strike ; 
And  that  house  with  the  coopilow 's  his'n,  —  which  the 
same  is  n't  bad  for  a  Pike. 


Thet 's  why  it 's  Dow's  Flat ; 

And  the  thing  of  it  is 
That  he  kinder  got  that 

Through  sheer  contrairiness : 
For 't  was  water  the  derned  cuss  was  seekin',  and  his 
•luck  made  him  certain  to  miss. 

Thet 's  so.    Thar 's  your  way 

To  the  left  of  yon  tree  ; 
But — a  —  look  h'yur,  say? 
Won't  you  come  up  to  tea  ? 
No  ?  Well,  then  the  next  time  you  're  passin' ;  and  ask 
after  Dow,  —  and  thet 's  me. 


IN  THE  TUNNEL, 


Did  n't  know  Flynn,  — 
Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 
Long  as  he 's  been  'yar  ? 
Look  'ee  here,  stranger, 
Whar  hev  you  been  ? 

Here  in  this  tunnel 
He  was  my  pardner, 

That  same  Tom  Flynn,  - 
Working  together, 
In  wind  and  weather, 

Day  out  and  in. 

Did  n't  know  FJynn  ! 
Well,  that  is  queer ; 

Why,  it 's  a  sin 

To  think  of  Tom  Flynn, 
Tom  with  his  cheer, 
Tom  without  fear,  — 
Stranger,  look  'yar ! 


IN  THE  TUNNEL. 


Thar  in  the  drift, 

Back  to  the  wall, 
He  held  the  timbers 

Ready  to  fall ; 

Then  in  the  darkness 
I  heard  him  call : 

u  Run  for  your  life,  Jake ! 

Run  for  your  wife's  sake ! 

Don't  wait  for  me." 
And  that  was  all 

Heard  in  the  din, 

Heard  of  Tom  Flynn,  — 
Flynn  of  Virginia. 

That 's  all  about 

Flynn  of  Virginia. 
That  lets  me  out. 

Here  in  the  damp,  — 
Out  of  the  sun,  — 

That  'ar  denied  lamp 
Makes  my  eyes  run. 
Well,  there,  —  I 'm  done  I 

But,  sir,  when  you  '11 
Hear  the  next  fool 
Asking  of  Flynn,  — 


IN  THE  TUNNEL. 


Flynn  of  Virginia,  — 
Just  you  chip  in, 
Say  you  knew  Flynn  ; 

Say  that  you 've  been  'yar. 


"  CICELY." 


ALKALI  STATION. 

Cicely  says  you  're  a  poet ;  maybe ;  I  ain't  much  o\ 
rhyme: 

I  reckon  you 'd  give  me  a  hundred,  and  beat  me  every 
time. 

Poetry  !  —  that 's  the  way  some  chaps  puts  up  an  idee, 
But  I  takes  mine  "  straight  without  sugar,"  and  that  'a 
what 's  the  matter  with  me. 

Poetry  !  —  just  look  round  you,  —  alkali,  rock,  anc| 
sage ; 

Sage-brush,  rock,  and  alkali ;  ain't  it  a  pretty  page  ! 
Sun  in  the  east  at  mornin',  sun  in  the  west  at  night, 
And  the  shadow  of  this  'yer  station  the  on'y  thing  moves 
in  sight. 

Poetry  !  —  Well  now  —  Polly !   Polly,  run  to  you* 
mam ; 

Run  right  away,  my  pooty !   By  by !  Ain't  she  a  lamb  ? 
Poetry  !  —  that  reminds  me  o'  suthin'  right  in  that  suit : 
Jest  shet  that  door  thar,  will  yer  ?  —  for  Cicely's  ears  is 
cute. 


46  «  CICELY." 

Ye  noticed  Polly,  —  the  baby  ?  A  month  afore  she  was 
born, 

Cicely  —  my  old  woman  —  was  moody-like  and  forlorn  ; 
Out  of  her  head  and  crazy,  and  talked  of  flowers  and 
trees  ; 

Family  man  yourself,  sir  ?    Well,  you  know  what  a 
woman  be's. 

Narvous  she  was,  and  restless,  —  said  that  she  "  could  n't 
stay" 

Stay,  —  and  the  nearest  woman  seventeen  miles  away. 
But  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  doctor,  and  he  said  he  would 
be  on  hand, 

And  I  kinder  stuck  by  the  shanty,  and  fenced  in  that  bit 
o'  land. 

One  night,  —  the  tenth  of  October,  —  I  woke  with  a 

chill  and  fright, 
For  the  door  it  was  standing  open,  and  Cicely  warn't  in 

sight, 

But  a  note  was  pinned  on  the  blanket,  which  it  said  that 

she  "  could  n't  stay," 
But  had  gone  to  visit  her  neighbor,  —  seventeen  miles 

away ! 


When  and  how  she  stampeded,  I  did  n't  wait  for  to  see, 
For  out  in  the  road,  next  minit,  I  started  as  wild  as  she ; 


"  cicely: 


47 


Running  first  this  way  and  that  way,  like  a  hound  that 

is  off  the  scent, 
For  there  warn't  no  track  in  the  darkness  to  tell  me  the 

way  she  went. 

I  've  had  some  mighty  mean  moments  afore  I  kem  to 
this  spot,  — 

Lost  on  the  Plains  in  '50,  drownded  almost,  and  shot ; 
But  out  on  this  alkali  desert,  a  hunting  a  crazy  wife, 
Was  ra'ly  as  on-satis-factory  as  anything  in  my  life. 

"  Cicely  !   Cicely !  Cicely  ! "  I  called,  and  I  held  my 
breath, 

Aud  "  Cicely !  "  came  from  the  canyon,  —  and  all  was 

as  still  as  death. 
And  "  Cicely  !  Cicely  !  Cicely ! "  came  from  the  rocks 

below, 

And  jest  but  a  whisper  of  "  Cicely  ! "  down  from  them 
peaks  of  snow. 

I  ain't  what  you  call  religious,  —  but  I  jest  looked  up 
to  the  sky, 

And  —  this  'yer 's  to  what  I 'm  coming,  and  maybe  ye 
think  I  lie  : 

But  up  away  to  the  east'ard,  yaller  and  big  and  far, 
I  saw  of  a  suddent  rising  the  singlerist  kind  of  star. 


48 


«  CICELY: 


Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  it  seemed  to  beckon  to  me  I 
Yaller  and  big  and  dancing,  such  as  you  never  see : 
Big  and  yaller  and  dancing,  —  I  never  saw  such  a 
star, 

And  I  thought  of  them  sharps  in  the  Bible,  and  I  went 
for  it  then  and  thar. 

Over  the  brush  and  bowlders  I  stumbled  and  pushed 

ahead  : 

Keeping  the  star  afore  me,  I  went  wharever  it  led. 
It  might  hev  been  for  an  hour,  when  sudden t  and  peart 
and  nigh, 

Out  of  the  yearth  afore  me  thar  riz  up  a  baby's  cry. 

Listen !  thar 's  the  same  music ;  but  her  lungs  they  are 
stronger  now 

Than  the  day  I  packed  her  and  her  mother,  —  I 'm 

denied  if  I  jest  know  how. 
But  the  doctor  kem  the  next  minit,  and  the  joke  o*  the 

whole  thing  is 
That  Cis  never  knew  what  happened  from  that  very 

night  to  this  ! 

But  Cicely  says  you  're  a  poet,  and  maybe  you  might, 
some  day, 

Jest  sling  her  a  rhyme  'bout  a  baby  that  was  born  in  a 
curious  way. 


"  CICELY." 


49 


And  see  what  she  says;  and,  old  fellow,  when  you 

speak  of  the  star,  don't  tell 
As  how 't  was  the  doctor's  lantern,  —  for  maybe 't  won't 

sound  so  welL 
4 


V 


PENELOPE. 

Simpson's  bar,  1858. 

So  you  've  kem  'yer  agen, 

And  one  answer  won't  do  ? 
Well,  of  all  the  derned  men 
That  I  've  struck,  it  is  you. 
O  Sal !  'yer 's  that  derned  fool  from  Simpson's  cavortm* 
round  'yer  in  the  dew. 

Kem  in,  ef  you  will. 

Thar,  —  quit !    Take  a  cheer. 
Not  that ;  you  can't  fill 

Them  theer  cushings  this  year,  — 
For  that  cheer  was  my  old  man's,  Joe  Simpson,  and  they 
don't  make  such  men  about  'yer. 

He  was  tall,  was  my  Jack, 
And  as  strong  as  a  tree. 
Thar 's  his  gun  on  the  rack,  — 
Jest  you  heft  it,  and  see. 
And  you  come  a  courtin'  his  widder.    Lord !  where  can 
that  critter,  Sal,  be! 


PENELOPE. 


51 


You  'd  fill  my  Jack's  place  ? 

And  a  man  of  your  size,  — 
With  no  baird  to  his  face, 
Nor  a  snap  to  his  eyes,  — 
And  nary  —  Sho !  thar  !  I  was  foolin',  —  I  was  Joe, 
for  sartain,  —  don't  rise. 


Sit  down.    Law  !  why,  sho  ! 

I 'm  as  weak  as  a  gal, 
Sal !    Don't  you  go,  Joe, 
Or  I  '11  faint,  —  sure,  I  shall. 
Sit  down,  —  anywheer,  where  you  like,  Joe,  —  in  that 
cheer,  if  you  choose,  —  Lord,  where 's  Sal ! 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


TABLE  MOUNTAIN,  1870. 

Which  I  wish  to  remark,  — 

And  my  language  is  plain,  — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar. 

Which  the  same  I  wTould  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name  ; 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply, 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third ; 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies ; 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand : 
It  was  Euchre.    The  same 

He  did  not  understand  ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve : 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see, — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower, 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand, 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  "  he  did  not  understand.' ' 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty -four  packs,  — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts  ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers,  —  that  's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark, 

And  my  language  is  plain, 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar,  — 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 


THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS. 


I  reside  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful 
James ; 

I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit,  or  any  sinful  games  ; 
And  I  '11  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the 
row 

That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man, 
And,  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "  put  a  head  "  on  him. 

Now  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than  the  first  six  months'  proceedings  of  that  same  so- 
ciety, 

Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement  of 
Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed 
there, 

From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  extremely 
rare 


56    THE  SOCIETY  UPON  THE  STANISLAUS. 


And  Jones  then  asked  the  Chair  for  a  suspension  of  the 
rules, 

Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his 
lost  mules. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at 
fault. 

It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  family 
vault : 

He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 

Now  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass,  —  at  least,  to  all  intent ; 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great  extent. 

Then  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  raised  a  point  of  order  — 
when 

A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen, 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on 
the  floor, 

And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  en- 
gage 

In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age ; 


THE  SOCIETY  UPON  TEE  STANISLAUS.  57 

And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger 
was  a  sin, 

Till  the  skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the  head  of 
Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truth- 
ful James  ; 

And  I 've  told  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about 
the  row 

That  broke  up  our  society  upon  the  Stanislow. 


POEMS. 

FROM  1860  TO  1868. 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG. 

Have  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg?  —  No  ?  Ah,  well, 

Brief  is  the  glory  the  hero  earns, 

Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns  : 

He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 

The  only  man  who  did  n't  back  down 

When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town: 

But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 

When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 

That  was  in  July,  sixty-three, 

The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 

Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 

Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 

From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG. 


Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 
And  felt  thair  breath  with  incense  sweet ; 
Or  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 
The  milk  that  fell,  in  a  babbling  flood 
Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood ! 
Or  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 
Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine, 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folks  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.    On  the  right 
Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 
Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 
Difficult  music  for  men  to  face  ; 
While  on  the  left  —  where  now  the  graves 
Undulate  like  the  living  waves 
That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 
Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept  — ■ 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG. 


Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain ; 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 

Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron,  — but  his  best ; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller." 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG.  61 


Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin,  — 

Clerks  that  the  Home  Guard  mustered  in,  — 

Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore  ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire : 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat !  "  "  Put  her  through  ! " 

44  Your  head 's  level,"  and  "  Bully  for  you  !  " 
Called  him  u  Daddy,"  — begged  he 'd  disclose 
The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 
And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those  ; 
While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — : 
With  his  long  brown  rifle,  and  bell-crowned  hat, 
And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at 

'T  was  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 
Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 
And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand ; 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw 


JOHN  BURNS  OF  GETTYSBURG. 


In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the  battle.    You  know  the  rest : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke  at  the  final  charge,  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Bums  —  a  practical  man  — 
Shouldered^  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns  : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question 's  whether 
You  11  show  a  hat  that  's  white,  or  a  feather  ! 


THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY. 


Name  of  iny  heroine,  simply  "  Rose ; " 
Surname,  tolerable  only  in  prose  ; 
Habitat,  Paris,  —  that  is  where 
She  resided  for  change  of  air ; 
^Etat  xx  ;  complexion  fair, 
Rich,  good-looking,  and  debonnaire, 
Smarter  than  Jersey-lightning —  There! 
That  's  her  photograph,  done  with  care. 

In  Paris,  whatever  they  do  besides, 
Every  lady  in  full  dress  rides! 
Moire  antiques  you  never  meet 
Sweeping  the  filth  of  a  dirty  street ; 
But  every  woman's  claim  to  ton 

Depends  upon 
The  team  she  drives,  whether  phaeton, 
Landau,  or  britzka.    Hence  it 's  plain 
That  Rose,  who  was  of  her  toilet  vain, 
Should  have  a  team  that  ought  to  be 
Equal  to  any  in  all  Paris  ! 


THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY. 


"  Bring  forth  the  horse ! "  —  The  commissaire 
Bowed,  and  brought  Miss  Rose  a  pair 
Leading  an  equipage  rich  and  rare : 

"  Why  doth  that  lovely  lady  stare  ?  " 
Why  ?    The  tail  of  the  off  gray  mare 
Is  bobbed,  —  by  all  that 's  good  and  fair  ! 
Like  the  shaving-brushes  that  soldiers  wear, 
Scarcely  showing  as  much  back-hair 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  "  Meg,"  —  and  there 
Lord  knows  she 'd  little  enough  to  spare. 

That  stare  and  frown  the  Frenchman  knew, 

But  did,  —  as  well-bred  Frenchmen  do  : 

Raised  his  shoulders  above  his  crown, 

Joined  his  thumbs,  with  the  fingers  down, 

And  said,  "  Ah  Heaven  !  "  —  then,  "  Mademoiselle, 

Delay  one  minute,  and  all  is  well ! " 

He  went ;  returned  ;  by  what  good  chance 

These  things  are  managed  so  well  in  France 

I  cannot  say,  —  but  he  made  the  sale, 

And  the  bob-tailed  mare  had  a  flowing  tail. 

All  that  is  false  in  this  world  below 
Betrays  itself  in  a  love  of  show ; 
Indignant  Nature  hides  her  lash 
In  the  purple-black  of  a  dyed  mustache ; 
The  shallowest  fop  will  trip  in  French, 
The  would-be  critic  will  misquote  Trench : 


THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY. 


In  short,  you  're  always  sure  to  detect 

A  sham  in  the  things  folks  most  affect ; 

Bean-pods  are  noisiest  when  dry, 

And  you  always  wink  with  your  weakest  eye : 

And  that 's  the  reason  the  old  gray  mare 

Forever  had  her  tail  in  the  air, 

With  flourishes  beyond  compare, 

Though  every  whisk 

Incurred  the  risk 
Of  leaving  that  sensitive  region  bare,  — 
She  did  some  things  that  you  could  n't  but  feel 
She  would  n't  have  done  had  her  tail  been  real. 

Champs  Elysees  :  Time,  past  five  ; 
There  go  the  carriages,  —  look  alive  ! 
Everything  that  man  can  drive, 
Or  his  inventive  skill  contrive,  — 
Yankee  buggy  or  English  "  chay  ; " 
Dog-cart,  droschky,  and  smart  coupe, 
A  desobligeante  quite  bulky, 
(French  idea  of  a  Yankee  sulky  ;) 
Band  in  the  distance,  playing  a  march, 
Footmen  standing  stiff  as  starch ; 
Savans,  lorettes,  deputies,  Arch- 
Bishops,  and  there  together  range 
/Sows-lieutenants  and  ce^^-gardes,  (strange 
Way  these  soldier-chaps  make  change,) 
5 


THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY, 


Mixed  with  black-eyed  Polish  dames, 

With  unpronounceable  awful  names  ; 

Laces  tremble,  and  ribbons  flout, 

Coachmen  wrangle  and  gendarmes  shout,  — 

Bless  us  !  what  is  the  row  about  ? 

Ah  !  here  comes  Rosey's  new  turn-out ! 

Smart !    You  bet  your  life 't  was  that ! 

Nifty  !  (short  for  magnificat) 

Mulberry  panels,  —  heraldic  spread,  — 

Ebony  wheels  picked  out  with  red, 

And  two  gray  mares  that  were  thoroughbred ; 

No  wonder  that  every  dandy's  head 

Was  turned  by  the  turn-out,  —  and 't  was  said 

That  Casko whisky  (friend  of  the  Czar), 

A  very  good  whip  (as  Russians  are), 

Was  tied  to  Rosey's  triumphal  car, 

Entranced,  the  reader  will  understand, 

By  "  ribbons  "  that  graced  her  head  and  hand. 

Alas  !  the  hour  you  think  would  crown 

Your  highest  wishes  should  let  you  down ! 

Or  Fate  should  turn,  by  your  own  mischance, 

Your  victor's  car  to  an  ambulance  ; 

From  cloudless  heavens  her  lightnings  glance, 

(And  these  things  happen,  even  in  France ;) 

And  so  Miss  Rose,  as  she  trotted  by,  — 

The  cynosure  of  every  eye,  — 

Saw  to  her  horror  the  off  mare  shy,  — 


THE  TALE  OF  A  PONY. 


67 


Flourish  her  tail  so  exceeding  high 
That,  disregarding  the  closest  tie, 
And  without  giving  a  reason  why, 
She  flung  that  tail  so  free  and  frisky 
Off  in  the  face  of  Caskowhisky ! 

Excuses,  blushes,  smiles  :  in  fine, 
End  of  the  pony's  tail,  and  mine  ! 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 


This  is  the  tale  that  the  Chronicle 
Tells  of  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 

The  heathen  stood  on  his  ancient  mound, 

Looking  over  the  desert  hound 

Into  the  distant,  hazy  south, 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign 

Where,  with  many  a  gaping  mouth, 

And  fissure  cracked  by  the  fervid  drouth, 

For  seven  months  had  the  wasted  plain 

Known  no  moisture  of  dew  or  rain. 

The  wells  were  empty  and  choked  with  sand; 

The  rivers  had  perished  from  the  land ; 

Only  the  sea  fogs,  to  and  fro, 

Slipped  like  ghosts  of  the  streams  below. 

Deep  in  its  bed  lay  the  river's  bones, 

Bleaching  in  pebbles  and  milk-white  stones, 

And  tracked  o'er  the  desert  faint  and  far, 

Its  ribs  shone  bright  on  each  sandy  bar. 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 


Thus  they  stood  as  the  sun  went  down 

Over  the  foot-hills  bare  and  brown  ; 

Thus  they  looked  to  the  South,  wherefrom 

The  pale-face  medicine-man  should  come. 

Not  in  anger,  or  in  strife, 

But  to  bring  —  so  ran  the  tale  — 

The  welcome  springs  of  eternal  life, 

The  living  waters  that  should  not  fail. 

Said  one,  "He  will  come  like  Manitou, 
Unseen,  unheard,  in  the  falling  dew." 
Said  another,  "  He  will  come  full  soon 
Out  of  the  round-faced  watery  moon." 
And  another  said,  "  He  is  here !  "  and  lo, — 
Faltering,  staggering,  feeble  and  slow,  — 
Out  from  the  desert's  blinding  heat 
The  Padre  dropped  at  the  heathen's  feet, 
They  stood  and  gazed  for  a  little  space 
Down  on  his  pallid  and  careworn  face, 
And  a  smile  of  scorn  went  round  the  band 
As  they  touched  alternate  with  foot  and  hand 
This  mortal  waif,  that  the  outer  space 
Of  dim  mysterious  sky  and  sand 
Flung  with  so  little  of  Christian  grace 
Down  on  their  barren,  sterile  strand. 

Said  one  to  him  :  "It  seems  thy  god 
Is  a  very  pitiful  kind  of  god  ; 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 


He  could  not  shield  thine  aching  eyes 
From  the  blowing  desert  sands  that  rise, 
Nor  turn  aside  from  thy  old  gray  head 
The  glittering  blade  that  is  brandished 
By  the  sun  be  set  in  the  heavens  high ; 
He  could  not  moisten  thy  lips  when  dry ; 
The  desert  fire  is  in  thy  brain ; 
Thy  limbs  are  racked  with  the  fever-pain : 
If  this  be  the  grace  he  showeth  thee 
Who  art  his  servant,  what  may  we, 
Strange  to  his  ways  and  his  commands, 
Seek  at  his  unforgiving  hands  ?  " 
"  Drink  but  this  cup,"  said  the  Padrer  straight, 
"  And  thou  shalt  know  whose  mercy  bore 
These  aching  limbs  to  your  heathen  door, 
And  purged  my  soul  of  its  gross  estate. 
Drink  in  His  name,  and  thou  shalt  see 
The  hidden  depths  of  this  mystery. 
Drink !  "  and  he  held  the  cup.    One  blow 
From  the  heathen  dashed  to  the  ground  below 
The  sacred  cup  that  the  Padre  bore ; 
And  the  thirsty  soil  drank  the  precious  store 
Of  sacramental  and  holy  wine, 
That  emblem  and  consecrated  sign 
And  blessed  symbol  of  blood  divine. 

Then,  says  the  legend,  (and  they  who  doubt 
The  same  as  heretics  be  accurst,) 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 


From  the  dry  and  feverish  soil  leaped  out 

A  living  fountain  ;  a  well-spring  burst 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 

Over  the  sandy  and  sterile  plain, 

Till  the  granite  ribs  and  the  milk-white  stones 

That  lay  in  the  valley  —  the  scattered  bones  — 

Moved  in  the  river  and  lived  again  1 

Such  was  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  cup  of  wine  that  fell 
From  the  hands  of  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 


AN  ARCTIC  VISION. 


Where  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 
Waddle  in  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  playful  polar  bear 
Nips  the  hunter  unaware  ; 
Where  by  day  they  track  the  ermine, 
And  by  night  another  vermin,  — 
Segment  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Where  the  temperature  alone 
Warms  on  St.  Ettas'  cone ; 
Polar  dock,  where  Nature  slips 
From  the  ways  her  icy  ships ; 
Land  of  fox  and  deer  and  sable, 
Shore  end  of  our  western  cable,  — 
Let  the  news  that  flying  goes 
Thrill  through  all  your  Arctic  floes, 
And  reverberate  the  boast 
From  the  cliffs  of  Beechey's  coast, 
Till  the  tidings,  circling  round 
Every  bay  of  Norton  Sound, 
Throw  the  vocal  tide-wave  back 
To  the  isles  of  Kodiac. 


AN  ARCTIC  VISION. 


Let  the  stately  polar  bears 
Waltz  around  the  pole  in  pairs, 
And  the  walrus,  in  his  glee, 
Bare  his  tusk  of  ivory  ; 
While  the  bold  sea  unicorn 
Calmly  takes  an  extra  horn  ; 
All  ye  polar  skies,  reveal  your 
Very  rarest  of  parhelia  ; 
Trip  it,  all  ye  merry  dancers, 
In  the  airiest  of  lancers  ; 
Slide,  ye  solemn  glaciers,  slide, 
One  inch  farther  to  the  tide, 
Nor  in  rash  precipitation 
Upset  Tyndall's  calculation. 
Know  you^n^t  what  fate  awaits  you, 
Or  to  whom  the  future  mates  you  ? 
All  ye  icebergs  make  salaam,  — 
You  belong  to  Uncle  Sam  ! 

On  the  spot  where  Eugene  Sue 
Led  his  wretched  Wandering  Jew, 
Stands  a  form  whose  features  strike 
Russ  and  Esquimaux  alike. 
He  it  is  whom  Skalds  of  old 
In  their  Runic  rhymes  foretold ; 
Lean  of  flank  and  lank  of  jaw, 
See  the  real  Northern  Thor  ! 


AN  ARCTIC  VISION. 


See  the  awful  Yankee  leering 
Just  across  the  Straits  of  Behring; 
On  the  drifted  snow,  too  plain, 
Sinks  his  fresh  tobacco  stain 
Just  beside  the  deep  inden- 
Tation  of  his  Number  10. 

Leaning  on  his  icy  hammer 
Stands  the  hero  of  this  drama, 
And  above  the  wild-duck's  clamor, 
In  his  own  peculiar  grammar, 
With  its  linguistic  disguises, 
Lo,  the  Arctic  prologue  rises : 
6  Wa'll,  I  reckon 't  ain't  so  bad, 
Seein'  ez  't  was  all  they  J^l ; 
True,  the  Springs  are  rather  late 
And  early  Falls  predominate  ; 
But  the  ice  crop 's  pretty  sure, 
And  the  air  is  kind  o'  pure ; 
'T  ain't  so  very  mean  a  trade, 
When  the  land  is  all  surveyed. 
There 's  a  right  smart  chance  for  fur-chase 
All  along  this  recent  purchase, 
And,  unless  the  stories  fail, 
Every  fish  from  cod  to  whale ; 
Rocks,  too  ;  mebbe  quartz  ;  let 's  see,  — 
'T  would  be  strange  if  there  should  be,  — 


AN  ARCTIC  VISION. 


Seems  I  Ve  heerd  such  stories  told ; 
Eh  !  —  why,  bless  us,  —  yes,  it  's  gold 

While  the  blows  are  falling  thick 
From  his  California  pick, 
You  may  recognize  the  Thor 
Of  the  vision  that  I  saw,  — 
Freed  from  legendary  glamour, 
See  the  real  magician's  hammer. 


TO  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL. 


A  GEOLOGICAL  ADDRESS. 

u  Speak,  O  man,  less  recent !    Fragmentary  fossil ! 
Primal  pioneer  of  pliocene  formation, 
Hid  in  lowest  drifts  below  the  earliest  stratum 
Of  volcanic  tufa ! 

"  Older  than  the  beasts,  the  oldest  Paloeotherium  ; 
Older  than  the  trees,  the  oldest  Cryptogami ; 
Older  than  the  hills,  those  infantile  eruptions 
Of  earth's  epidermis  ! 

"  Eo  —  Mio  —  Plio  —  whatsoe'er  the  6  cene  *  was 
That  those  vacant  sockets  filled  with  awe  and  wonder, 
Whether  shores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches,  — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story  ! 

"  Or  has  the  professor  slightly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on  this  planet, 
Giving  thee  an  air  that 's  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 


TO  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL.  77 


"  Wert  thou  true  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
"When  above  thy  head  the  stately  Sigillaria 
Reared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and  distant 
Carboniferous  epoch? 

"  Tell  us  of  that  scene,  —  the  dim  and  watery  wood- 
land 

Songless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  insect 
Veiled  with  spreading  fronds  and  screened  with  tall  club- 
mosses, 

Lycopodiacea,  — 

"  When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesiosaurus, 
And  around  thee  crept  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from  time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and  circled 
Cheerful  Pterodactyls. 

"  Tell  us  of  thy  food,  —  those  half-marine  refections, 
Crinoids  on  the  shell  and  Brachipods  ait  naturel,  — 
Cuttle-fish  to  which  the  pieuvre  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

"  Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  Earth's  creation,  — 
Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic  ! 
Tell  the  wondrous  secret  of  thy  past  existence,  — 
Speak  !  thou  oldest  primate ! 99 


78  TO  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL. 


Even  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla, 
And  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process, 
With  post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastication, 
Ground  the  teeth  together. 

And,  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition, 
Stained  with  expressed  juices  of  the  weed  Nicotian, 
Came  these  hollow  accents,  blent  with  softer  murmurs 
Of  expectoration : 

"  Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was  busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft  in  Calaveras  County, 
But  I  'd  take  it  kindly  if  you 'd  send  the  pieces 
Home  to  old  Missouri ! " 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU. 


Oh  say,  have  you  seen  at  the  Willows  so  green, — 

So  charming  and  rurally  true,  — 
A  singular  bird,  with  a  manner  absurd, 

Which  they  call  the  Australian  Emeu  ? 

Have  you 

Ever  seen  this  Australian  Emeu  ? 

It  trots  all  around  with  its  head  on  the  ground, 

Or  erects  it  quite  out  of  your  view  ; 
And  the  ladies  all  cry,  when  its  figure  they  spy, 

Oh,  what  a  sweet  pretty  Emeu ! 

Oh!  do 

Just  look  at  that  lovely  Emeu  ! 

One  day  to  this  spot,  when  the  weather  was  hot, 

Came  Matilda  Hortense  Fortescue  ; 
An(J  beside  her  there  came  a  youth  of  high  name,  — 

Augustus  Florell  Montague  : 

The  two 

Both  loved  that  wild  foreign  Emeu, 


80  THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU. 


With  two  loaves  of  bread  then  they  fed  it,  instead 

Of  the  flesh  of  the  white  cockatoo, 
Which  once  was  its  food  in  that  wild  neighborhood 

Where  ranges  the  sweet  Kangaroo  ; 

That  too 

Is  game  for  the  famous  Emeu  ! 

Old  saws  and  gimlets  but  its  appetite  whets 

Like  the  world-famous  bark  of  Peru  ; 
There 's  nothing  so  hard  that  the  bird  will  discard, 

And  nothing  its  taste  will  eschew, 
That  you 

Can  give  that  long-legged  Emeu  ! 

The  time  slipped  away  in  this  innocent  play, 

When  up  jumped  the  bold  Montague : 
"  Where 's  that  specimen  pin  that  I  gayly  did  win 

In  raffle,  and  gave  unto  you, 

Fortescue  ?  " 

No  word  spoke  the  guilty  Emeu ! 

M  Quick !  tell  me  his  name  whom  thou  gavest  that  same, 
Ere  these  hands  in  thy  blood  I  imbrue  !  " 

44  Nay,  dearest,"  she  cried,  as  she  clung  to  his  side, 
"  I 'm  innocent  as  that  Emeu !  " 

"  Adieu  !  " 
He  replied,  "  Miss  M.  H.  Fortescue  ! " 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU. 


81 


Down  she  dropped  at  his  feet,  all  as  white  as  a  sheet, 

As  wildly  he  fled  from  her  view  ; 
He  thought 't  was  her  sin,  —  for  he  knew  not  the  pin 
Had  been  gobbled  up  by  the  Emeu ; 

All  through 
The  voracity  of  that  Emeu  ! 
6 


THE  AGED  STRANGER. 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  WAR. 

"  I  was  with  Grant " —  the  stranger  said  ; 
Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 
For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant "  —  the  stranger  said  ; 
Said  the  farmer,  "  Nay,  no  more,  — 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 
And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"  How  fares  my  boy,  —  my  soldier  boy, 
Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps  ? 
I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  Vid  the  battle's  roar  !  M 

w  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And,  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  was  with  Grant "  — *    "  Nay,  nay,  I  know," 
Said  the  farmer,  "  say  no  mor§ ; 


THE  AGED  STRANGER. 


"  He  fell  in  battle,  — I  see,  alas  ! 

Thou  'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er,  — 
Nay :  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be, 
Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"  How  fell  he,  —  with  his  face  to  the  foe, 
Upholding  the  flag  he  bore  ? 
Oh  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 
The  uniform  that  he  wore  !  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"  And  should  have  remarked,  before, 
That  I  was  with  Grant,  —  in  Illinois,  — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 
But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 

That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for  Grant 
Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


"HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY?' 


Down  the  picket-guarded  lane, 
Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 
Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 

Soldier-like  and  merry  : 
Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 
Sabre-cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 
Such  as  "  Bully  !  "    "  Them 's  the  peach !  " 

"  Wade  in,  Sanitary  !  " 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew, 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military  ; 
Sunburnt  men  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these,  — 
"  U.  S.  San.  Com."    "  That 's  the  cheese  ! 99 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  ! 99 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 
Lo !  was  stationary  ; 


" HOW  ARE  YOU,  SANITARY? 


And  where  bullets  whistling  fly, 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"  Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die,  — 
Save  us,  Sanitary !  " 

Such  the  work.  The  phantom  flies 
Wrapped  in  battle  clouds  that  rise  ; 
But  the  brave  —  whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside  — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride, 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  !  " 


THE  REVEILLE. 

Hark  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum ; 
Lo !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum,  — 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come ! 
Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick  alarming 
drum. 


u  Let  me  ol  my  heart  take  counsel : 
War  is  not  of  Life  the  sum ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come  ! 
Death  shall  reap  the  braver  harvest/ 9  said  the  solemn- 
sounding  drum. 

"  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 
What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become  ? 99 


THE  REVEILLE. 


87 


But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  ! 
You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee- 
answering  drum. 

"  What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 
Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 
Better  there  in  death  united,  than  in  life  a  recreant,  — • 
come !  " 

Thus  they  answered,  —  hoping,  fearing, 

Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
Till  a  trumpet- voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come ! " 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo !  was  dumb? 
For  the  great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing,  answered, 
"  Lord,  we  come ! " 


OUR  PRIVILEGE. 

Not  ours,  where  battle  smoke  upcurls, 

And  battle  dews  lie  wet, 
To  meet  the  charge  that  treason  hurls 

By  sword  and  bayonet. 

Not  ours  to  guide  the  fatal  scythe 

The  fleshless  reaper  wields ; 
The  harvest  moon  looks  calmly  down 

Upon  our  peaceful  fields. 

The  long  grass  dimples  on  the  hill, 

The  pines  sing  by  the  sea, 
And  Plenty,  from  her  golden  horn, 

Is  pouring  far  and  free. 

O  brothers  by  the  farther  sea, 
Think  still  our  faith  is  warm  ; 

The  same  bright  flag  above  us  waves 
That  swathed  our  baby  form. 

The  same  red  blood  that  dyes  your  fields 
Here  throbs  in  patriot  pride ; 


OUR  PRIVILEGE. 


The  blood  that  flowed  when  Lander  fell, 
And  Baker's  crimson  tide. 

And  thus  apart  our  hearts  keep  time 

With  every  pulse  ye  feel, 
And  Mercy's  ringing  gold  shall  chime 

With  Valor's  clashing  steel. 


RELIEVING  GUARD. 


T.  S.  K.     OBIIT  MARCH  4,  1864. 

Came  the  Relief.    "  What,  Sentry,  ho ! 
How  passed  the  night  through  thy  long  waking  ?  n 
u  Cold,  cheerless,  dark,  —  as  may  befit 
The  hour  before  the  dawn  is  breaking." 

"  No  sight  ?  no  sound  ?  "    "  No  ;  nothing  save 
The  plover  from  the  marshes  calling, 
And  in  yon  Western  sky,  about 
An  hour  ago,  a  Star  was  falling." 

"  A  star  ?    There 's  nothing  strange  in  that." 

"  No,  nothing ;  but,  above  the  thicket, 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
Somewhere  had  just  relieved  a  picket." 


PARODIES. 


A  GEOLOGICAL  MADRIGAL. 

AFTER  HERRICK. 

I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair ; 

I  know  where  the  fossils  abound, 
Where  the  footprints  of  Aves  declare 

The  birds  that  once  walked  on  the  ground; 
Oh,  come,  and  —  in  technical  speech  — 

We  '11  walk  this  Devonian  shore, 
Or  on  some  Silurian  beach 

We  '11  wander,  my  love,  evermore. 

I 

I  will  show  thee  the  sinuous  track 

By  the  slow-moving  annelid  made, 
Or  the  Trilobite  that,  farther  back, 

In  the  old  Potsdam  sandstone  was  laid ; 
Thou  shalt  see,  in  his  Jurassic  tomb, 

The  Plesiosaurus  embalmed ; 
In  his  Oolitic  prime  and  his  bloom,  — 

Iguanodon  safe  and  unharmed  ! 


A  GEOLOGICAL  MADRIGAL. 


You  wished  —  I  remember  it  well, 

And  I  loved  you  the  more  for  that  wish 
For  a  perfect  cystedian  shell 

And  a  whole  holocephalic  fish. 
And  oh,  if  Earth's  strata  contains 

In  its  lowest  Silurian  drift, 
Or  Palaeozoic  remains 

The  same,  —  't  is  your  lover's  free  gift ! 

Then  come,  love,  and  never  say  nay, 

But  calm  all  your  maidenly  fears, 
We  '11  note,  love,  in  one  summer's  day 

The  record  of  millions  of  years  ; 
And  though  the  Darwinian  plan 

Your  sensitive  feelings  may  shock, 
We  '11  find  the  beginning  of  man,  — 

Our  fossil  ancestors  in  rock ! 


THE  WILLOWS. 


AFTER  EDGAR  A.  POE. 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 

The  streets  they  were  dirty  and  drear  ; 
It  was  night  in  the  month  of  October, 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year  ; 
Like  the  skies  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

As  I  stopped  at  the  mansion  of  Shear,  — 
At  the  Nightingale,  —  perfectly  sober, 

And  the  willowy  woodland,  down  here. 

Here,  once  in  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  Ten-pins,  —  I  roamed  with  my  soul,  — 

Of  Ten-pins,  —  with  Mary,  my  soul ; 
They  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic, 

And  impelled  me  to  frequently  roll, 

And  made  me  resistlessly  roll, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

In  the  realms  of  the  Boreal  pole, 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

With  the  monkey  atop  of  his  pole. 


94 


THE  WILLOWS, 


I  repeat,  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

But  my  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sear,  — 

My  thoughts  were  decidedly  queer ; 
For  I  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  I  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year ; 
I  forgot  that  sweet  morceau  of  Auber 

That  the  band  oft  performed  down  here, 
And  I  mixed  the  sweet  music  of  Auber 

With  the  Nightingale's  music  by  Shear. 

And  now  as  the  night  was  senescent, 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

And  car-drivers  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  the  path  a  liquescent 

And  bibulous  lustre  was  born  ; 
'T  was  made  by  the  bar-keeper  present, 

Who  mixed  a  duplicate  horn,  — 
His  two  hands  describing  a  crescent, 

Distinct  with  a  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said :  "  This  looks  perfectly  regal, 

For  it 's  warm,  and  I  know  I  feel  dry, 

I  am  confident  that  I  feel  dry  ; 
We  have  come  past  the  emeu  and  eagle, 

And  watched  the  gay  monkey  on  high ; 
Let  us  drink  to  the  emeu  and  eagle,  — 

To  the  swan  and  the  monkey  on  high, 

To  the  eagle  and  monkey  on  high ; 


THE  WILLOWS. 


For  this  bar-keeper  will  not  inveigle,  — 
Bully  boy  with  the  vitreous  eye  ; 

He  surely  would  never  inveigle,  — 
Sweet  youth  with  the  crystalline  eye." 

But  Mary,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said,  "  Sadly  this  bar  I  mistrust,  — 
I  fear  that  this  bar  does  not  trust. 

Oh  hasten  !  oh  let  us  not  linger ! 

Oh  fly,  —  let  us  fly,  —  ere  we  must ! " 

In  terror  she  cried,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust,  — 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust,  — 
Till  it  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

Then  I  pacified  Mary  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  into  the  room, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  warning  of  doom,  - 
By  some  words  that  were  warning  of  doom. 

And  I  said,  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  ?  " 

She  sobbed,  as  she  answered,  "  All  liquors 
Must  be  paid  for  ere  leaving  the  room." 


THE  WILLOWS. 


Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober, 
As  the  streets  were  deserted  and  drear,  — 
For  my  pockets  were  empty  and  drear ; 

And  I  cried,  "  It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  fair  maiden  down  here, 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year. 
Ah  !  to  me  that  inscription  is  clear ; 

Well  I  know  now,  I 'm  perfectly  sober, 
Why  no  longer  they  credit  me  here,  — 

Well  I  know  now  that  music  of  Auber, 
And  this  Nightingale,  kept  by  one  Shear." 


NORTH  BEACH. 


AFTER  SPENSER. 

Lo !  where  the  castle  of  bold  Pfeiffer  throws 

Its  sullen  shadow  on  the  rolling  tide,  — 

No  more  the  home  where  joy  and  wealth  repose, 

But  now  where  wassailers  in  cells  abide  ; 

See  yon  long  quay  that  stretches  far  and  wide, 

Well  known  to  citizens  as  wharf  of  Meiggs  ; 

There  each  sweet  Sabbath  walks  in  maiden  pride 

The  pensive  Margaret,  and  brave  Pat,  whose  legs 

Encased  in  broadcloth  oft  keep  time  with  Peg's. 

Here  cometh  oft  the  tender  nursery-maid, 
While  in  her  ear  her  love  his  taletloth  pour ; 
Meantime  her  infant  doth  her  charge  evade, 
And  rambleth  sagely  on  the  sandy  shore, 
Till  the  sly  sea-crab,  low  in  ambush  laid, 
Seizeth  his  leg  and  biteth  him  full  sore. 
Ah  me  !  what  sounds  the  shuddering  echoes  bore, 
When  his  small  treble  mixed  with  Ocean's  roar. 

Hard  by  there  stands  an  ancient  hostelrie, 
And  at  its  side  a  garden,  where  the  bear, 
7 


NORTH  BEACH. 


The  stealthy  catamount,  and  coon  agree 
To  work  deceit  on  all  who  gather  there ; 

And  when  Augusta  —  that  unconscious  fair  

With  nuts  and  apples  plieth  Bruin  free, 

Lo  !  the  green  parrot  claweth  her  back  hair, 

And  the  gray  monkey  grabbeth  fruits  that  she 

On  her  gay  bonnet  wears,  and  laugheth  loud  in  glee ! 


THE  LOST  TAILS  OF  MILETUS. 


High  on  the  Thracian  hills,  half  hid  in  the  billows  of 

clover, 

Tbyme,  and  the  asphodel  blooms,  and  lulled  by  Paeto- 

lian  streamlet, 
She  of  Miletus  lay,  and  beside  her  an  aged  satyr 
Scratched  his  ear  with  his  hoof,  and  playfully  mumbled 

his  chestnuts. 

Vainly  the  Maenid  and  the  Bassarid  gambolled  about 
her, 

The  free-eyed  Bacchante  sang,  and  Pan  —  the  renowned, 

the  accomplished  — 
Executed  his  difficult  solo.    In  vain  were  their  gambols 

and  dances  : 

High  o'er  the  Thracian  hills  rose  the  voice  of  the  shep- 
herdess, wailing. 

"  Ai !  for  the  fleecy  flocks,  —  the  meek-nosed,  the  pas- 
sionless faces  ; 

Ai !  for  the  tallow-scented,  the  straight-tailed,  the  high- 
stepping  ; 


100         THE  LOST  TAILS  OF  MILETUS. 

Ai !  for  the  timid  glance,  which  is  that  which  the  rustic, 
sagacious, 

Applies  to  him  who  loves  but  may  not  declare  his  pas- 
sion ! " 

Her  then  Zeus  answered  slow :  "  O  daughter  of  song 
and  sorrow, — 

Hapless  tender  of  sheep,  —  arise  from  thy  long  lamen- 
tation ! 

Since  thou  canst  not  trust  fate,  nor  behave  as  becomes  a 

Greek  maiden, 
Look  and  behold  thy  sheep."  —  And  lo  !  they  returned 

to  her  tailless  ! 


EAST  AFD  WEST  POEMS. 


PART  I. 


A  GREYPORT  LEGEND. 
1797. 

They  ran  through  the  streets  of  the  seaport  town ; 
They  peered  from  the  decks  of  the  ships  that  lay : 
The  cold  sea-fog  that  came  whitening  down 
Was  never  as  cold  or  white  as  they. 

"  Ho,  Starbuck  and  Pinckney  and  Tenterden  ! 
Run  for  your  shallops,  gather  your  men, 
Scatter  your  boats  on  the  lower  bay." 

Good  cause  for  fear !    In  the  thick  midday 
The  hulk  that  lay  by  the  rotting  pier, 
Filled  with  the  children  in  happy  play, 
Parted  its  moorings,  and  drifted  clear,  — 

Drifted  clear  beyond  the  reach  or  call,  — 
Thirteen  children  they  were  in  all,  — 
All  adrift  in  the  lower  bay ! 


104 


A  GREYPORT  LEGEND. 


Said  a  hard-faced  skipper,  "  God  help  us  all ! 
She  will  not  float  till  the  turning  tide ! 99 
Said  his  wife,  "  My  darling  will  hear  my  call, 
Whether  in  sea  or  heaven  she  bide :  " 

And  she  lifted  a  quavering  voice  and  high, 

Wild  and  strange  as  a  sea-birds  cry, 

Till  they  shuddered  and  wondered  at  her  side. 

The  fog  drove  down  on  each  laboring  crew, 
Veiled  each  from  each  and  the  sky  and  shore  : 
There  was  not  a  sound  but  the  breath  they  drew, 
And  the  lap  of  water  and  creak  of  oar  ; 

And  they  felt  the  breath  of  the  downs,  fresh  blown 
O'er  leagues  of  clover  and  cold  gray  stone, 
But  not  from  the  lips  that  had  gone  before. 

They  come  no  more.    But  they  tell  the  tale, 
That,  when  fogs  are  thick  on  the  harbor  reef, 
The  mackerel  fishers  shorten  sail ; 
For  the  signal  they  know  will  bring  relief: 

For  the  voices  of  children,  still  at  play 

In  a  phantom  hulk  that  drifts  alway 

Through  channels  whose  waters  never  fail. 

It  is  but  a  foolish  shipman's  tale, 
A  theme  for  a  poet's  idle  page  ; 


A  GREYPORT  LEGEND. 


105 


But  still,  when  the  mists  of  doubt  prevail, 
And  we  lie  becalmed  by  the  shores  of  Age, 
We  hear  from  the  misty  troubled  shore 
The  voice  of  the  children  gone  before, 
Drawing  the  soul  to  its  anchorage. 


I 

A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE. 

They  say  that  she  died  of  a  broken  heart 

(I  tell  the  tale  as 't  was  told  to  me)  •; 
But  her  spirit  lives,  and  her  soul  is  part 

Of  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

Her  lover  was  fickle  and  fine  and  French  : 

It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
When  he  sailed  away  from  her  arms  —  poor  wench  — 

With  the  Admiral  Rochambeau. 

T  marvel  much  what  periwigged  phrase 

^Won  the  heart  of  this  sentimental  Quaker, 
At  what  golden-laced  speech  of  those  modish  days 
She  listened  —  the  mischief  take  her  ! 

But  she  kept  the  posies  of  mignonette 

That  he  gave ;  and  ever  as  their  bloom  failed 

And  faded  (though  with  her  tears  still  wet) 
Her  youth  with  their  own  exhaled. 

Till  one  night,  when  the  sea-fog  wrapped  a  shroud 
Round  spar  and  spire  and  tarn  and  tree, 


A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE. 


107 


Her  soul  went  up  on  that  lifted  cloud 
From  this  sad  old  house  by  the  sea. 

And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 
She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room, 

And  the  air  is  filled  that  she  passes  through 
With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 

The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 

Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story  ;  yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way  ? 

I  sit  in  the  sad  old  house  to-night,  — 
Myself  a  ghost  from  a  farther  sea ; 

And  I  trust  that  this  Quaker  woman  might, 
In  courtesy,  visit  me. 

For  the  laugh  is  fled  from  porch  and  lawn, 
And  the  bugle  died  from  the  fort  on  the  hill, 

And  the  twitter  of  girls  on  the  stairs  is  gone, 
And  the  grand  piano  is  still. 

Somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  clock  strikes  two ; 

And  there  is  no  sound  in  the  sad  old  house, 
But  the  long  veranda  dripping  with  dew, 

And  in  the  wainscot  a  mouse. 


A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE. 


The  light  of  my  study-lamp  streams  out 

From  the  library  door,  but  has  gone  astray 

In  the  depths  of  the  darkened  hall.    Small  doubt 
But  the  Quakeress  knows  the  way. 

Was  it  the  trick  of  a  sense  o'erwrought 
With  outward  watching  and  inward  fret? 

But  I  swear  that  the  air  just  now  was  fraught 
With  the  odor  of  mignonette ! 

I  open  the  window,  and  seem  almost  — 
So  still  lies  the  ocean  —  to  hear  the  beat 

Of  its  Great  Gulf  artery  off  the  coast, 
And  to  bask  in  its  tropic  heat. 

In  my  neighbor's  windows  the  gas-lights  flare, 
As  the  dancers  swing  in  a  waltz  of  Strauss ; 

And  I  wonder  now  could  I  fit  that  air 
To  the  song  of  this  sad  old  house. 

And  no  odor  of  mignonette  there  is 

But  the  breath  of  morn  on  the  dewy  lawn ; 

And  mayhap  from  causes  as  slight  as  this 
The  quaint  old  legend  is  born. 

But  the  soul  of  that  subtle,  sad  perfume, 
As  the  spiced  embalmings,  they  say,  outlast 


A  NEWPORT  ROMANCE. 


109 


The  mummy  laid  in  his  rocky  tomb, 
Awakens  my  buried  past. 

And  I  think  of  the  passion  that  shook  my  youth, 
Of  its  aimless  loves  and  its  idle  pains, 

And  am  thankful  now  for  the  certain  truth 
That  only  the  sweet  remains. 

And  I  hear  no  rustle  of  stiff  brocade, 
And  I  see  no  face  at  my  library  door  ; 

For  now  that  the  ghosts  of  my  heart  are  laid, 
She  is  viewless  for  evermore. 

But  whether  she  came  as  a  faint  perfume, 
Or  whether  a  spirit  in  stole  of  white, 

I  feel,  as  I  pass  from  the  darkened  room, 
She  has  been  with  my  soul  to-night ! 


THE  HAWK'S  NEST. 


SIERRAS. 

We  checked  our  pace,  —  the  red  road  sharply  round- 
ing; 

We  heard  the  troubled  flow 
Of  the  dark  olive  depths  of  pines,  resounding 
A  thousand  feet  below. 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  canon  lifted, 

The  gray  hawk  breathless  hung  ; 
Or  on  the  hill  a  winged  shadow  drifted 

Where  furze  and  thorn-bush  clung : 

Or  where  half-way  the  mountain  side  was  furrowed 

With  many  a  seam  and  scar  ; 
Or  some  abandoned  tunnel  dimly  burrowed,  — 

A  mole-hill  seen  so  far. 

We  looked  in  silence  down  across  the  distant 

Unfathomable  reach : 
A  silence  broken  by  the  guide's  consistent 

And  realistic  speech. 


THE  HA  WK'S  NEST. 


Ill 


"  Walker  of  Murphy's  blew  a  hole  through  Peters 

For  telling  him  he  lied ; 
Then  up  and  dusted  out  of  South  Hornitos 

Across  the  long  Divide. 

u  We  ran  him  out  of  Strong's,  and  up  through  Eden, 

And  'cross  the  ford  below ; 
And  up  this  canon  (Peters'  brother  leadin'), 

And  me  and  Clark  and  Joe. 

**  He  fou't  us  game  :  somehow,  I  disremember 

Jest  how  the  thing  kem  round  ; 
Some  say 't  was  wadding,  some  a  scattered  ember 

From  fires  on  the  ground. 

u  But  in  one  minute  all  the  hill  below  him 

Was  just  one  sheet  of  fiame  ; 
Guardin'  the  crest,  Sam  Clark  and  I  called  to  him. 

And,  —  well,  the  dog  was  game  ! 

4i  He  made  no  sign  :  the  fires  of  hell  were  round  him, 

The  pit  of  hell  below. 
We  sat  and  waited,  but  never  found  him  ; 

And  then  we  turned  to  go. 

"  And  then  —  you  see  that  rock  that 's  grown  so  bristly 
With  chaparral  and  tan  : 


112 


THE  HAWK'S  NEST. 


Suthin'  crep'  out :  it  might  hev  been  a  grizzly, 
It  might  hev  been  a  man  ; 

"  Suthin'  that  howled,  and  gnashed  its  teeth,  and  shouted 

In  smoke  and  dust  and  flame  ; 
Suthin'  that  sprang  into  the  depths  about  it, 

Grizzly  or  man,  —  but  game  ! 

"  That 's  all.    Well,  yes,  it  does  look  rather  risky, 

And  kinder  makes  one  queer 
And  dizzy  looking  down.    A  drop  of  whiskey 

Ain't  a  bad  thing  right  here  ! " 


IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN. 

1865. 


FATHER  FELIPE. 

•  I  speak  not  the  English  well,  but  Pachita 
She  speak  for  me  ;  is  it  not  so,  my  Pancha  ? 
Eh,  little  rogue  ?    Come,  salute  me  the  stranger 
Americano. 

Sir,  in  my  country  we  say,  "  Where  the  heart  is, 
There  live  the  speech."  Ah !  you  not  understand  ?  So  ! 
Pardon  an  old  man,  —  what  you  call  "  ol  fogy,"  — 
Padre  Felipe  ! 

Old,  Senor,  old!  just  so  old  as  the  Mission. 
You  see  that  pear-tree  ?    How  old  you  think,  Senor  ? 
Fifteen  year  ?    Twenty  ?    Ah,  Senor,  just  Fifty 
Gone  since  I  plant  him  ! 

You  like  the  wine  ?    It  is  some  at  the  Mission, 
Made  from  the  grape  of  the  year  Eighteen  Hundred ; 
All  the  same  time  when  the  earthquake  he  come  to 
San  Juan  Bautista. 

8 


114 


IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN. 


But  Pancha  is  twelve,  and  she  is  the  rose-tree ; 
And  I  am  the  olive,  and  this  is  the  garden  : 
And  Pancha  we  say ;  but  her  name  is  Francisca, 
Same  like  her  mother. 

Eh,  you  knew  her  ?    No  ?    Ah  !  it  is  a  story ; 
But  I  speak  not,  like  Pachita,  the  English : 
So  ?    If  I  try,  you  will  sit  here  beside  me, 

And  shall  not  laugh,  eh  ? 

When  the  American  come  to  the  Mission, 
Many  arrive  at  the  house  of  Francisca : 
One,  —  he  was  fine  man,  —  he  buy  the  cattle 
Of  Jose  Castro, 

So !  he  came  much,  and  Francisca  she  saw  him  : 
And  it  was  Love,  —  and  a  very  dry  season  ; 
And  the  pears  bake  on  the  tree,  —  and  the  rain  come, 
But  not  Francisca  ; 

Not  for  one  year ;  and  one  night  I  have  walk  much 
Under  the  olive-tree,  when  comes  Francisca : 
Comes  to  me  here,  with  her  child,  this  Francisca,  — » 
Under  the  olive-tree. 

Sir,  it  was  sad ;  .  .  .  but  I  speak  not  the  English  ; 
So  !  .  .  .  she  stay  here,  and  she  wait  for  her  husband : 


IN  THE  MISSION  GARDEN 


115 


He  come  no  more,  and  she  sleep  on  the  hillside : 
There  stands  Pachita. 

Ah  !  there 's  the  Angelus.    Will  you  not  enter  ? 
Or  shall  you  walk  in  the  garden  with  Pancha  ? 
Go,  little  rogue  —  stt  — -  attend  to  the  stranger. 

Adios,  Senor. 

pachita  {briskly). 

So,  he 's  'been  telling  that  yarn  about  mother  ! 
Bless  you,  he  tells  it  to  every  stranger : 
Folks  about  yer  say  the  old  man 's  my  father ; 

What 's  your  opinion  ? 


THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS. 

REUNION  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC,  12TH  MAY,  1871. 

"  Well,  you  see,  the  fact  is,  Colonel,  I  don't  know  as  I 
can  come : 

For  the  farm  is  not  half  planted,  and  there 's  work  to  do 
at  home  ; 

And  my  leg  is  getting  troublesome,  —  it  laid  me  up  last 
fall, 

And  the  doctors,  they  have  cut  and  hacked,  and  never 
found  the  ball. 

"  And  then  for  an  old  man  like  me,  it 's  not  exactly  right, 
This  kind  o'  playing  soldier  with  no  enemy  in  sight. 
6  The  Union/  —  that  was  well  enough  way  up  to  '66 ; 
But  this  6  Re-Union,' — maybe  now  it 's  mixed  with  pol- 
itics ? 

"  No  ?    Well,  you  understand  it  best ;  but  then,  you  see, 
my  lad, 

I 'm  deacon  now,  and  some  might  think  that  the  exam- 
ple 's  bad. 


THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS. 


Ill 


And  week  from  next  is  Conference  You  said  the 

12th  of  May  ? 

Why,  that  \s  the  day  we  broke  their  line  at  Spottsyl- 
van-i-a ! 

"  Hot  work  ;  eh,  Colonel,  was  n't  it  ?    Ye  mind  that 
narrow  front : 

They  called  it  the  4  Death- Angle  1 '    Well,  well,  my  lad, 
we  won't 

Fight  that  old  battle  over  now  :  I  only  meant  to  say 
I  really  can't  engage  to  come  upon  the  12th  of  May. 

"  How 's  Thompson  ?    What !  will  he  be  there  ?  Well, 

now,  I  want  to  know  ! 
The  first  man  in  the  rebel  works  !  they  called  him 

4  Swearing  Joe  : ' 
A  wild  young  fellow,  sir,  I  fear  the  rascal  was  ;  but 

then  — 

Well,  short  of  heaven,  there  wa'n't  a  place  he  dursn't 
lead  his  men. 

"And  Dick,  you  say,  is  coming  too.    And  Billy?  ah! 
it 's  true 

We  buried  him  at  Gettysburg:  I  mind  the  spot ;  do  you  ? 
A  little  field  below  the  hill,  —  it  must  be  green  this  May ; 
Perhaps  that 's  why  the  fields  about  bring  him  to  me  to- 
day. 


118  THE  OLD  MAJOR  EXPLAINS. 

"  Well,  well,  excuse  me,  Colonel !  but  there  are  some 

things  that  drop 
The  tail-board  out  one's  feelings  ;  and  the  only  way 's  to 

stop. 

So  they  want  to  see  the  old  man ;  ah,  the  rascals  !  do 
they,  eh  ? 

Well,  I  've  business  down  in  Boston  about  the  12th  of 
May." 


"  SEVENTY-NINE." 


MR.  INTERVIEWER  INTERVIEWED. 

Know  me  next  time  when  you  see  me,  won't  you,  old 

smarty  ? 

Oh,  I  mean  you,  old  figger-head,  — just  the  same  party  ! 
Take  out  your  pensivil,  d — n  you  ;  sharpen  it,  do! 
Any  complaints  to  make  ?    Lots  of  'em  — one  of  'em 's 
you. 

You  !  who  are  you,  anyhow,  goin'  round  in  that  sneakin' 
way  ? 

Never  in  jail  before,  was  you,  old  blatherskite,  say  ? 
Look  at  it ;  don't  it  look  pooty  ?   Oh,  grin,  and  be  d — d 
to  you,  do ! 

But,  if  I  had  you  this  side  o'  that  gratin',  I 'd  just  make 
it  lively  for  you. 

How  did  I  get  in  here  ?    Well,  what  'ud  you  give  to 
know  ? 

'T  was  n't  by  sneakin'  round  where  I  had  n't  no  call 
to  go; 


120 


"  SE  VENT  Y-2VINE." 


'T  was  n't  by  hangin'  round  a  spyin'  unfortnet  men. 
Grin !  but  I  '11  stop  your  jaw  if  ever  you  do  that  agen. 

Why  don't  you  say  suthin',  blast  you  ?    Speak  your 

mind  if  you  dare. 
Ain't  I  a  bad  lot,  sonny  ?    Say  it,  and  call  it  square. 
Hain't  got  no  tongue,  hey,  hev  ye.    O  guard  !  here 's  a 

little  swell, 

A  cussin'  and  swearin'  and  yellin',  and  bribin'  me  not  to 
tell. 

There,  I  thought  that  'ud  fetch  ye.    And  you  want  to 

know  my  name  ? 
"  Seventy-Nine  "  they  call  me  ;  but  that  is  their  little 

game. 

For  I 'm  werry  highly  connected,  as  a  gent,  sir,  can  un- 
derstand ; 

And  my  family  hold  their  heads  up  with  the  very  furst 
in  the  land. 

For 't  was  all,  sir,  a  put-up  job  on  a  pore  young  man 
like  me  ; 

And  the  jury  was  bribed  a  puppos,  and  aftdrst  they 

could  n't  agree. 
And  I  sed  to  the  judge,  sez  I,  —  Oh,  grin  !  it 's  all  right 

my  son  ! 

But  you  're  a  werry  lively  young  pup,  and  you  ain't  to 
be  played  upon ! 


"SEVENTY-NINE: 


121 


Wot 's  that  you  got  —  tobacco?    I'm  cussed  but  I 

thought 't  was  a  tract. 
Thank  ye.    A  chap  t'  other  day  —  now,  look'ee,  this  is 

a  fact, 

Slings  me  a  tract  on  the  evils  o'  keepin'  bad  company, 
As  if  all  the  saints  was  howlin'  to  stay  here  along 's  we. 

No :  I  hain't  no  complaints.    Stop,  yes  ;  do  you  see 
that  chap,  — 

Him  standi  a'  over  there,  —  a  hidin'  his  eyes  in  his 
cap  ? 

Well,  that  man's  stumick  is  weak,  and  he  can't  stand  the 
pris'n  fare  ; 

For  the  coffee  is  just  half  beans,  and  the  sugar  ain't  no 
where. 

Perhaps  it 's  his  bringin'  up ;  but  he  sickens  day  by 
day, 

And  he  doesn't  take  no  food,  and  I'm  seein'  him  waste 
away. 

And  it  isn't  the  thing  to  see;  for,  whatever  he's  been 
and  done, 

Starvation  is  n't  the  plan  as  he's  to  be  saved  upon. 

For  he  cannot  rough  it  like  me :  and  he  has  n't  the 

stamps,  I  guess, 
To  buy  him  his  extry  grub  outside  o'  the  pris'n  mess. 


1 22  «« SE  VENTY-NINE." 

And  perhaps  if  a  gent  like  you,  with  whom  I  Ve  been 
sorter  free, 

Would  —  thank  you  I    But,  say,  look  here  !    Oh,  blast 
it,  don't  give  it  to  me  ! 

Don't  you  give  it  to  me  ;  now,  don't  ye,  don't  ye,  don't ! 
You  think  it 's  a  put-up  job ;  so  I  '11  thank  ye,  sir,  if  you 
won't. 

But  hand  him  the  stamps  yourself :  why,  he  is  n't  even 
my  pal ; 

And  if  it 's  a  comfort  to  you,  why,  I  don't  intend  that  he 
shall. 


HIS  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER."- 


REPORTED  BY  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

Being  asked  by  an  intimate  party,  — 

Which  the  same  I  would  term  as  a  friend,  — 
Which  his  health  it  were  vain  to  call  hearty, 

Since  the  mind  to  deceit  it  might  lend  ; 
For  his  arm  it  was  broken  quite  recent, 

And  has  something  gone  wrong  with  his  lung,  — 
Which  is  why  it  is  proper  and  decent 

I  should  write  what  he  runs  off  his  tongue  : 

First,  he  says,  Miss,  he 's  read  through  your  letter 

To  the  end,  —  and  the  end  came  too  soon  ; 
That  a  slight  illness  kept  him  your  debtor 

(Which  for  weeks  he  was  wild  as  a  loon)  ; 
That  his  spirits  are  buoyant  as  yours  is ; 

That  with  you,  Miss,  he  challenges  Fate 
(Which  the  language  that  invalid  uses 

At  times  it  were  vain  to  relate). 

And  he  says  that  the  mountains  are  fairer 
For  once  being  held  in  your  thought ; 


124       HIS  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER:1 


That  each  rock  holds  a  wealth  that  is  rarer 

Than  ever  by  gold-seeker  sought 
(Which  are  words  he  would  put  in  these  pages, 

By  a  party  not  given  to  guile  ; 
Which  the  same  not,  at  date,  paying  wages/ 

Might  produce  in  the  sinful  a  smile). 

He  remembers  the  ball  at  the  Ferry, 

And  the  ride,  and  the  gate,  and  the  vow, 
And  the  rose  that  you  gave  him,  —  that  very 

Same  rose  he  is  treasuring  now 
(Which  his  blanket  he 's  kicked  on  his  trunk,  Miss, 

And  insists  on  his  legs  being  free  ; 
And  his  language  to  me  from  his  bunk,  Miss, 

Is  frequent  and  painful  and  free)  ; 

He  hopes  you  are  wearing  no  willows, 

But  ure  happy  and  gay  all  the  while  ; 
That  he  knows  (which  this  dodging  of  pillows 

Imparts  but  small  case  to  the  style, 
And  the  same  you  will  pardon),  —  he  knows,  Miss, 

That,  though  parted  by  many  a  mile, 
Yet  were  he  lying  under  the  snows,  Miss, 

They 'd  melt  into  tears  at  your  smile. 

And  you  '11  still  think  of  him  in  your  pleasures, 
In  your  brief  twilight  dreams  of  the  past ; 


HIS  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER."  125 


In  this  green  laurel-spray  that  he  treasures, 
It  was  plucked  where  your  parting  was  last ; 

In  this  specimen,  —  but  a  small  trifle,  — 
It  will  do  for  a  pin  for  your  shawl 

(Which  the  truth  not  to  wickedly  stifle 

Was  his  last  week's  "clean  up,"  —  and  his  all). 

He 's  asleep,  which  the  same  might  seem  strange,  Miss, 

Were  it  not  that  I  scorn  to  deny 
That  I  raised  his  last  dose,  for  a  change,  Miss, 

In  view  that  his  fever  was  high  ; 
But  he  lies  there  quite  peaceful  and  pensive. 

And  now,  my  respects,  Miss,  to  you  ; 
Which  my  language,  although  comprehensive, 

Might  seem  to  be  freedom,  —  it 's  true. 

Which  I  have  a  small  favor  to  ask  you, 

As  concerns  a  bull-pup,  which  the  same,  — 
If  the  duty  would  not  overtask  you,  — 

You  would  please  to  procure  for  me,  game  ; 
And  send  per  express  to  the  Flat,  Miss, 

Which  they  say  York  is  famed  for  the  breed, 
Which  though  words  of  deceit  may  be  that,  Miss, 

I  '11  trust  to  your  taste,  Miss,  indeed. 

P.  S.  —  Which  this  same  interfering 
Into  other  folks'  way  I  despise ; 


126      HIS  ANSWER  TO  "HER  LETTER:9 


Yet  if  it  so  be  I  was  hearing 

That  it 's  just  empty  pockets  as  lies 
Betwixt  you  arid  Joseph,  it  tollers, 

That,  having  no  family  claims, 
Here 's  my  pile  ;  which  it 's  six  hundred  dollars, 

As  is  yours,  with  respects, 

Tkuthful  JA3IE3* 


FURTHER  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL 
JAMES. 


NYE'S  FORD,  STANISLAUS. 
1S70. 

Do  I  sleep  ?  do  I  dream  ? 
Do  I  wonder  and  doubt  ? 
Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 
Or  is  visions  about  ? 
Is  our  civilization  a  failure  ? 
Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out  ? 

Which  expressions  are  strong  ; 
Yet  would  feebly  imply 
Some  account  of  a  wrong  — 
Not  to  call  it  a  lie  — 

As  was  worked  off  on  William,  mypardner, 
And  the  same  being  W.  Nye. 

He  came  down  to  the  Ford 
On  the  very  same  day 
Of  that  lottery  drawed 
By  those  sharps  at  the  Bay ; 


FURTHER  LANGUAGE 


And  he  says  to  me,  "  Truthful,  how  goes  it  ?  " 
I  replied,  "It  is  far,  far  from  gay ; 

"  For  the  camp  has  gone  wild 

On  this  lottery  game, 

And  has  even  beguiled 
i  Injin  Dick '  by  the  same." 

Which  said  Nye  to  me,  "  Injins  is  pizen: 

Do  you  know  what  his  number  is,  James  ?  " 

I  replied  "  7,2, 
9,8,4,  is  his  hand  ;  " 
When  he  started,  and  drew 
Out  a  list,  which  he  scanned  ; 
Then  he  softly  went  for  his  revolver 
With  language  I  cannot  command. 

Then  I  said,  "  William  Nye  !  " 

But  he  turned  upon  me, 

And  the  look  in  his  eye 

Was  quite  painful  to  see  ; 

And  he  says,  "  You  mistake  :  this  poor  Injin 

I  protects  from  such  sharps  as  you  be  ! " 

I  was  shocked  and  withdrew; 
But  I  grieve  to  relate, 
When  he  next  met  my  view 
Injin  Dick  was  his  mate, 


FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


And  the  two  around  town  was  a-lying 
In  a  frightfully  dissolute  state. 

Which  the  war-dance  they  had 
Round  a  tree  at  the  Bend 
Was  a  sight  that  was  sad  ; 
And  it  seemed  that  the  end 
Would  not  justify  the  proceedings, 
As  I  quiet  remarked  to  a  friend. 

For  that  Injin  he  fled 

The  next  day  to  his  band  ; 

And  we  found  William  spread 

Very  loose  on  the  strand, 

With  a  peaceful-like  smile  on  his  features, 

And  a  dollar  greenback  in  his  hand  ; 

Which,  the  same  when  rolled  out, 
We  observed  with  surprise, 
That  that  Injin,  no  doubt, 
Had  believed  was  the  prize,  — 
Them  figures  in  red  in  the  corner, 
Which  the  number  of  notes  specifies. 

Was  it  guile,  or  a  dream  ? 
Is  it  Nye  that  I  doubt  ? 
9 


130 


FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 


Are  things  what  they  seem  ? 
Or  is  visions  about  ? 
Is  our  civilization  a  failure  ? 
«Or  is  the  Caucasian  played  out? 


THE  WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN. 


Of  all  the  fountains  that  poets  sing,  — 

Crystal,  thermal,  or  mineral  spring  ; 

Ponce  cle  Leon's  Fount  of  Youth  ; 

Wells  with  hottoms  of  doubtful  truth  ; 

In  short,  of  all  the  springs  of  Time 

That  ever  were  flowing  in  fact  or  rhyme, 

That  ever  were  tasted,  felt,  or  seen,  — 

There  were  none  like  the  Spring  of  San  Joaquin* 

Anno  Domini  Eighteen-Seven, 

Father  Dominguez  (now  in  heaven,  — 

Obiit,  Eighteen  twenty-seven) 

Found  the  spring,  and  found  it,  too, 

By  his  mule's  miraculous  cast  of  a  shoe  ; 

For  his  beast  — a  descendant  of  Balaam's  ass  — 

Stopped  on  the  instant,  and  would  not  pass. 

The  Padre  thought  the  omen  good, 
And  bent  his  lips  to  the  trickling  flood  ; 
Then  —  as  the  chronicles  declare, 
On  the  honest  faith  of  a  true  believer  — 


WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN 


His  cheeks,  though  wasted,  lank,  and  bare, 

Filled  like  a  withered  russet-pear 

In  the  vacuum  of  a  glass  receiver, 

And  the  snows  that  seventy  winters  bring 

Melted  away  in  that  magic  spring. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  wondrous  news 
The  Padre  brought  into  Santa  Cruz. 
The  Church,  of  course,  had  its  own  views 
Of  who  were  worthiest  to  use 
The  magic  spring  ;  but  the  prior  claim 
Fell  to  the  aged,  eick,  and  lame. 
Far  and  wide  the  people  came  : 
Some  from  the  healthful  Aptos  creek 
Hastened  to  bring  their  helpless  sick  ; 
Even  the  fishers  of  rude  Soquel 
Suddenly  found  they  were  far  from  well ; 
The  brawny  dwellers  of  San  Lorenzo 
Said,  in  fact,  they  had  never  been  so  : 
And  all  were  ailing,  —  strange  to  say,  — 
From  Pescaclero  to  Monterey. 

Over  the  mountain  they  poured  in 
"With  leathern  bottles,  and  bogs  of  skin  ; 
Through  the  canons  a  motley  throng 
Trotted,  hobbled,  and  limped  along. 
The  fathers  gazed  at  the  moving  scene 
With  pious  joy  and  with  souls  serene ; 


WxjNDEHFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN. 


And  then  —  a  result  perhaps  foreseen  — 
They  laid  out  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 

Not  in  the  eyes  of  Faith  alone 

The  good  effects  of  the  waters  shone  ; 

But  skins  grew  rosy,  eyes  waxed  clear, 

Of  rough  vacquero  and  muleteer  ; 

Angular  forms  were  rounded  out, 

Limbs  grew  supple,  and  waists  grew  stout ; 

And  as  for  the  girls,  —  for  miles  about 

They  had  no  equal !    To  this  day, 

From  Pescadero  to  Monterey, 

You  '11  still  find  eyes  in  which  are  seen 

The  liquid  graces  of  San  Joaquin. 

.There  is  a  limit  to  human  bliss, 

And  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin  had  this  ; 

None  went  abroad  to  roam  or  stay, 

But  they  fell  sick  in  the  queerest  way,  — 

A  singular  maladie  du  pays, 

With  gastric  symptoms  :  so  they  spent 

Their  days  in  a  sensuous  content ; 

Caring  little  for  things  unseen 

Beyond  their  bowers  of  living  green,  — 

Beyond  the  mountains  that  lay  between 

The  world  and  the  Mission  of  San  Joaquin. 


WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN. 


Winter  passed,  and  the  summer  came  : 
The  trunks  of  madrono  all  aflame, 
Here  and  there  through  the  underwood 
Like  pillars  of  fire  starkly  stood. 
All  of  the  breezy  solitude 

Was  filled  with  the  spicing  of  pine  and  bay 
And  resinous  odors  mixed  and  blended, 

And  dim  and  ghost-like  far  aw;iy 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  woods  ascended. 
Then  of  a  sudden  tlie  mountains  swam, 
The  rivers  piled  their  floods  in  a  dam, 
The  ridge  above  Los  Gatos  creek 

Arched  its  spine  in  a  feline  fashion  ; 
The  forests  waltzed  till  they  grew  sick, 

And  Nature  shook  in  a  speechless  passion  ; 
And,  swallowed  up  in  the  earthquake's  spleen. 
The  wonderful  Spring  of  San  Joaquin 
Vanished,  and  never  more  was  seen ! 

Two  days  passed :  the  Mission  folk 

Out  of  their  rosy  dream  awoke. 

Some  of  them  looked  a  trifle  white  ; 

But  that,  no  doubt,  was  from  earthquake  fright 

Three  days  :  there  was  sore  distress, 

Headache,  nausea,  giddiness. 

Four  days  :  faintings,  tenderness 

Of  the  mouth  and  fauces  ;  and  in  less 


WONDERFUL  SPRING  OF  SAN  JOAQUIN. 


Than  one  week,  —  here  the  story  closes  ; 
We  won't  continue  the  prognosis,  — 
Enough  that  now  no  trace  is  seen 
Of  Spring  or  Mission  of  San  Joaquin 

MORAL. 

You  see  the  point  ?    Don't  be  too  quick 
To  break  bad  habits  :  better  stick, 
Like  the  Mission  folk,  to  your  arsenic. 


ON  A  COXE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES. 

SEQUOIA  GIGANTEA. 

Brown  foundling  of  the  Western  wood, 

Babe  of  primeval  wildernesses  ! 
Long  on  my  table  thou  hast  stood 

Encounters  strange  and  rude  caresses  ; 
Perchance  contented  with  thy  lot, 

Surroundings  new  and  curious  faces, 
As  though  ten  centuries  were  not 

Imprisoned  in  thy  shining  cases ! 

Thou  bring'st  me  back  the  halcyon  days 

Of  grateful  rest ;  the  week  of  leisure, 
The  journey  Lipped  in  autumn  haze, 

The  sweet  fatigue  that  seemed  a  pleasure, 
The  morning  ride,  the  noonday  halt, 

The  blazing  slopes,  the  red  dust  rising, 
And  then  —  the  dim,  brown,  columned  vault, 

With  its  cool,  damp,  sepulchral  spicing. 

Once  more  I  see  the  rocking  masts 
That  scrape  the  sky,  their  only  tenant 


ON  A  CONE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES.  137 

The,  jay-bird  that  in  frolic  casts 

From  some  high  yard  his  broad  blue  pennant. 
I  see  the  Indian  files  that  keep 

Their  places  in  the  dusty  heather, 
Their  red  trunks  standing  ankle  deep 

In  moccasins  of  rusty  leather. 

I  see  all  this,  and  marvel  much 

That  thou,  sweet  woodland  waif,  art  able 
To  keep  the  company  of  such 

As  throng  thy  friend's  —  the  poet's  —  table  : 
The  latest  spawn  the  press  hath  cast,  — 

The  "  modern  Pope's/'  "  the  later  Byron's  "  — 
Why  e'en  the  best  may  not  outlast 

Thy  poor  relation,  —  Sempervirens. 

Thy  sire  saw  the  light  that  shone 

On  Mohammed's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 

And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present; 
He  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 

And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches ; 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 

The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches. 


And  must  thou,  foundling,  still  forego 
Thy  heritage  and  high  ambition, 


ON  A  CONE  OF  THE  BIG  TREES. 

To  lie  full  lowly  and  full  low, 

Adjusted  to  thy  new  condition? 
Not  hidden  in  the  drifted  snows, 

But  under  ink-drops  idly  spattered, 
And  leaves  ephemeral  as  those 

That  on  thy  woodland  tomb  were  scattered. 

Yet  lie  thou  there,  O  friend !  and  speak 

The  moral  of  thy  simple  story : 
Though  life  is  all  that  thou  dost  seek, 

And  age  alone  thy  crown  of  glory,  — 
Not  thine  the  only  germs  that  fail 

The  purpose  of  their  high  creation, 
If  their  poor  tenements  avail 

For  worldly  show  and  ostentation. 


A  SANITARY  MESSAGE. 


Last  night,  above  the  whistling  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain,  — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  key-hole  piped,  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew ; 
Yet,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 

A  softer  voice  stole  through. 

"  Give  thanks,  O  brothers  !  "  said  the  voice, 
"  That  He  who  sent  the  rains 
Hath  spared  your  fields  the  scarlet  dew 

That  drips  from  patriot  veins  : 
I 've  seen  the  grass  on  Eastern  graves 

In  brighter  verdure  rise  ; 
But,  oh  !  the  rain  that  gave  it  life 
Sprang  first  from  human  eyes. 

"  I  come  to  wash  away  no  stain 
Upon  your  wasted  lea  ; 
I  raise  no  banners,  save  the  ones 
The  forest  wave  to  me  : 


140  A  SANITARY  MESSAGE. 


Upon  the  mountain  side,  where  Spring 

Her  farthest  picket  sets, 
My  reveille  awakes  a  host 

Of  grassy  bayonets. 

"  I  visit  every  humble  roof  ; 

I  mingle  with  the  low : 
Only  upon  the  highest  peaks 

My  blessings  fall  in  snow ; 
Until,  in  tricklings  of  the  stream 

And  drainings  of  the  lea, 
My  unspent  bounty  comes  at  last 

To  mingle  with  the  sea." 

And  thus  all  night,  above  the  wind, 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain.  — 
A  fusillade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane  : 
The  key-hole  piped ;  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew ; 
But,  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife, 

This  hymn  of  peace  stole  through. 


THE  COPPERHEAD. 


1864. 

There  is  peace  in  the  swamp  where  the  Copperhead 
sleeps, 

Where  the  waters  are  stagnant,  the  white  vapor  creeps, 
Where  the  musk  of  Magnolia  hangs  thick  in  the  air, 
And  the  lilies'  phylacteries  broaden  in  prayer  ; 
There  is  peace  in  the  swamp,  though  the  quiet  is  Death, 
Though  the  mist  is  miasm,  the  Upas  tree's  breath, 
Though  no  echo  awakes  to  the  cooing  of  doves,  — 
There  is  peace :  yes,  the  peace  that  the  Copperhead 
loves ! 

Go  seek  him  :  he  coils  in  the  ooze  and  the  drip 
Like  a  thong  idly  flung  from  the  slave-driver's  whip ; 
But  beware  the  false  footstep,  —  the  stumble  that  brings 
A  deadlier  lash  than  the  overseer  swings. 
Never  arrow  so  true,  never  bullet  so  dread, 
As  the  straight  steady  stroke  of  that  hammer-shaped 
head ; 

Whether  slave,  or  proud  planter,  who  braves  that  dull 
crest, 

Woe  to  him  who  shall  trouble  the  Copperhead's  rest ! 


142  THE  COPPERHEAD. 

Then  why  waste  your  labors,  brave  hearts  and  strong 
men, 

In  tracking  a  trail  to  the  Copperhead's  den  ? 
Lay  your  axe  to  the  cypress,  hew  open  the  shade 
To  the  free  sky  and  sunshine  Jehovah  has  made  ; 
Let  the  breeze  of  the  North  sweep  the  vapors  away, 
Till  the  stagnant  lake  ripples,  the  freed  waters  play  ; 
And  then  to  your  heel  can  you  righteously  doom 
The  Copperhead  born  of  its  shadow  and  gloom ! 


ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS  STARR  KING. 


This  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped, 
With  tuneful  magic  in  its  sheath  still  hidden ; 

The  prompt  allegro  of  its  music  stopped, 
Its  melodies  unbidden. 

But  who  shall  finish  the  unfinished  strain, 
Or  wake  the  instrument  to  awe  and  wonder, 

And  bid  the  slender  barrel  breathe  again,  — 
An  organ-pipe  of  thunder  ? 

His  pen  !  what  humbler  memories  cling  about 

Its  golden  curves  !  what  shapes  and  laughing  graces 

Slipped  from  its  point,  when  his  full  heart  went  out 
In  smiles  and  courtly  phrases  ! 

The  truth,  half  jesting,  half  in  earnest  flung ; 

The  word  of  cheer,  with  recognition  in  it ; 
The  note  of  alms,  whose  golden  speech  outrung 

The  golden  gift  within  it. 

But  all  in  vain  the  enchanter's  wand  we  wave : 
No  stroke  of  ours  recalls  his  magic  vision ; 

The  incantation  that  its  power  gave 
Sleeps  with  the  dead  magician. 


LONE  MOUNTAIN. 


CEMETERY,   SAN  FRANCISCO. 

This  is  that  hill  of  awe 

That  Persian  Sindbad  saw,  — 

The  mount  magnetic ; 
And  on  its  seaward  face, 
Scattered  along  its  base, 

The  wrecks  prophetic. 

Here  comes  the  argosies 
Blown  by  each  idle  breeze, 

To  and  fro  shifting  ; 
Yet  to  the  hill  of  Fate 
All  drawing,  soon  or  late,  — 

Day  by  day  drifting ;  — 

Drifting  forever  here 
Barks  that  for  many  a  year 

Braved  wind  and  weather ; 
Shallops  but  yesterday 
Launched  on  yon  shining  bay,  — 

Drawn  all  together. 


LONE  MOUNTAIN. 


145 


This  is  the  end  of  all : 
Sun  thyself  by  the  wall, 

0  poorer  Hindbad  ! 
Envy  not  Sindbad's  fame  : 
Here  come  alike  the  same, 

Hindbad  and  Sindbad. 

10 


\ 


CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD. 


1869. 

We  know  him  well :  no  need  of  praise 

Or  bonfire  from  the  windy  hill 
To  light  to  softer  paths  and  ways 

The  world-worn  man  we  honor  still ; 

No  need  to  quote  those  truths  he  spoke 

That  burned  through  years  of  war  and  shame 

While  History  carves  with  surer  stroke 
Across  our  map  his  noon-day  fame ; 

No  need  to  bid  him  show  the  scars 
Of  blows  dealt  by  the  Scaean  gate, 

Who  lived  to  pass  its  shattered  bars, 
And  see  the  foe  capitulate ; 

Who  lived  to  turn  his  slower  feet 

Toward  the  western  setting  sun, 
To  see  his  harvest  all  complete, 

His  dream  fulfilled,  his  duty  done,  — 


CALIFORNIA'S  GREETING  TO  SEWARD.  147 


The  one  flag  streaming  from  the  j)ole, 
The  one  faith  borne  from  sea  to  sea,  — 

For  such  a  triumph,  and  such  goal, 
Poor  must  our  human  greetings  be. 

Ah !  rather  that  the  conscious  land 
In  simpler  ways  salute  the  Man,  — 

The  tall  pines  bowing  where  they  stand, 
The  bared  head  of  El  Capitan, 

The  tumult  of  the  waterfalls, 
Pohono's  kerchief  in  the  breeze, 

The  waving  from  the  rocky  walls, 
The  stir  and  rustle  of  the  trees  ; 

Till  lapped  in  sunset  skies  of  hope, 

In  sunset  lands  by  sunset  seas. 
The  Young  World's  Premier  treads  the  slope 

Of  sunset  years  in  calm  and  peace. 


THE  TWO  SHIPS. 

As  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest, 

Looking  over  the  ultimate  sea, 
In  the  gloom  of  the  mountain  a  ship  lies  at  rest, 

And  one  sails  away  from  the  lee : 
One  spreads  its  white  wings  on  a  far-reaching  track, 

With  pennant  and  sheet  flowing  free  ; 
One  hides  in  the  shadow  with  sails  laid  aback,  — 

The  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me  ! 

But  lo,  in  the  distance  the  clouds  break  away  I 

The  Gate's  glowing  portals  I  see ; 
And  I  hear  from  the  outgoing  ship  in  the  bay 

The  song  of  the  sailors  in  glee  : 
So  I  think  of  the  luminous  footprints  that  bore 

The  comfort  o'er  dark  Galilee, 
And  wait  for  the  signal  to  go  to  the  shore, 

To  the  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me. 


THE  GODDESS. 


FOR   THE   SANITARY  FAIR. 

"  Who  comes  ?  "    The  sentry's  warning  cry- 
Rings  sharply  on  the  evening  air : 
Who  comes  ?    The  challenge  :  no  reply, 
Yet  something  motions  there. 

A  woman,  by  those  graceful  folds ; 
A  soldier,  by  that  martial  tread : 
"  Advance  three  paces.    Halt !  until 
Thy  name  and  rank  be  said." 

"  My  name  ?    Her  name,  in  ancient  song, 
Who  fearless  from  Olympus  came  : 
Look  on  me  !    Mortals  know  me  best 
In  battle  and  in  flame." 

"  Enough  !    I  know  that  clarion  voice  ; 
I  know  that  gleaming  eye  and  helm  ; 
Those  crimson  lips,  —  and  in  their  dew 
The  best  blood  of  the  realm. 


THE  GODDESS. 


"  The  young,  the  brave,  the  good  and  wise, 
Have  fallen  in  thy  curst  embrace  : 
The  juices  of  the  grapes  of  wrath 
Still  stain  thy  guilty  face. 

"  My  brother  lies  in  yonder  field, 

Face  downward  to  the  quiet  grass  : 
Go  back  !  he  cannot  see  thee  now ; 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  pass." 

A  crack  upon  the  evening  air, 
A  wakened  echo  from  the  hill : 

The  watch-dog  on  the  distant  shore 
Gives  mouth,  and  all  is  still. 

The  sentry  with  his  brother  lies 
Face  downward  on  the  quiet  grass  ; 

And  by  him,  in  the  pale  moonshine, 
A  shadow  seems  to  pass. 

No  lance  or  warlike  shield  it  bears : 
A  helmet  in  its  pitying  hands 

Brings  water  from  the  nearest  brook, 
To  meet  his  last  demands. 

Can  this  be  she  of  haughty  mien, 

The  goddess  of  the  sword  and  shield  ? 


THE  GODDESS. 


Ah,  yes !    The  Grecian  poet's  myth 
Sways  still  each  battle-field. 

For  not  alone  that  rugged  war 

Some  grace  or  charm  from  beauty  gains 
But,  when  the  goddess'  work  is  done, 

The  woman's  still  remains. 


ADDRESS. 


OPENING    OP  THE    CALIFORNIA  THEATRE,  SAN  FRAN' 
CISCO,  JANUARY  19,  1870. 

Brief  words,  when  actions  wait,  are  well : 
The  prompter's  hand  is  on  his  bell ; 
The  coming  heroes,  lovers,  kings, 
Are  idly  lounging  at  the  wings  ; 
Behind  the  curtain's  mystic  fold 
The  glowing  future  lies  unrolled,  — 
And  yet,  one  moment  for  the  Past ; 
One  retrospect,  —  the  first  and  last. 


"  The  world 's  a  stage,"  the  master  said. 
To-night  a  mightier  truth  is  read : 
Not  in  the  shifting  canvas  screen, 
The  flash  of  gas,  or  tinsel  sheen  ; 
Not  in  the  skill  whose  signal  calls 
From  empty  boards  baronial  halls ; 
But,  fronting  sea  and  curving  bay, 
Behold  the  players  and  the  play. 


ADDRESS. 


Ah,  friends  !  beneath  your  real  skies 
The  actor's  short-lived  triumph  dies  : 
On  that  broad  stage,  of  empire  won 
Whose  footlights  were  the  setting  sun, 
Whose  flats  a  distant  background  rose 
In  trackless  peaks  of  endless  snows  ; 
Here  genius  bows,  and  talent  waits 
To  copy  that  but  One  creates. 

Your  shifting  scenes  :  the  league  of  sand, 
An  avenue  by  ocean  spanned  ; 
The  narrow  beach  of  straggling  tents, 
A  mile  of  stately  monuments  ; 
Your  standard,  lo  !  a  flag  unfurled. 
Whose  clinging  folds  clasp  half  the  world, 
This  is  your  drama,  built  on  facts, 
With  "  twenty  years  between  the  acts." 

One  moment  more  :  if  here  we  raise 
The  oft-sung  hymn  of  local  praise, 
Before  the  curtain  facts  must  sway ; 
Here  waits  the  moral  of  your  play. 
Glassed  in  the  poet's  thought,  you  view 
What  money  can,  yet  cannot  do  ; 
The  faith  that  soars,  the  deeds  that  shine, 
Above  the  gold  that  builds  the  shrine. 


154 


ADDRESS. 


And  oh  !  when  others  take  our  place, 
And  Earth's  green  curtain  hides  our  face, 
Ere  on  the  stage,  so  silent  now, 
The  last  new  hero  makes  his  bow  : 
So  may  our  deeds,  recalled  once  more 
In  Memory's  sweet  but  brief  encore, 
Down  all  the  circling  ages  run, 
With  the  world's  plaudit  of  "  Well  done !  " 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 


In  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one, 

The  regular  yearly  galleon, 

Laden  with  odorous  gums  and  spice, 

India  cottons  and  India  rice, 

And  the  richest  silks  of  far  Cathay, 

Was  due  at  Acapulco  Bay. 

Due  she  was,  and  over-due,  — 
Galleon,  merchandise,  and  crew, 
Creeping  along  through  rain  and  shine, 
Through  the  tropics,  under  the  line. 
The  trains  were  waiting  outside  the  walls, 
The  wives  of  sailors  thronged  the  town, 
The  traders  sat  by  their  empty  stalls, 
And  the  viceroy  himself  came  down  ; 
The  bells  in  the  towers  were  all  a-trip, 
Te  Deums  were  on  each  father's  lip, 
The  limes  were  ripening  in  the  sun 
For  the  sick  of  the  coming  galleon. 

All  in  vain.    Weeks  passed  away, 
And  yet  no  galleon  saw  the  bay  : 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 


India  goods  advanced  in  price  ; 
The  governor  missed  his  favorite  spice  ; 
The  senoritas  mourned  for  sandal, 
And  the  famous  cottons  of  Coromandel ; 
And  some  for  an  absent  lover  lost, 
And  one  for  a  husband,  —  Donna  Julia, 
Wife  of  the  captain,  tempest-tossed, 
In  circumstances  so  peculiar: 
Even  the  fathers,  unawares, 
Grumbled  a  little  at  their  prayers  ; 
And  all  along  the  coast  that  year 
Votive  candles  were  scarce  and  dear. 

Never  a  tear  bedims  the  eye 

That  time  and  patience  will  not  dry  ; 

Never  a  lip  is  curved  with  pain 

That  can't  be  kissed  into  smiles  again : 

And  these  same  truths,  as  far  as  I  know, 

Obtained  on  the  coast  of  Mexico 

More  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 

In  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty-one,  — 

Ten  years  after  the  deed  was  done,  — 

And  folks  had  forgotten  the  galleon  : 

The  divers  plunged  in  the  Gulf  for  pearls, 

White  as  the  teeth  of  the  Indian  girls ; 

The  traders  sat  by  their  full  bazaars  ; 

The  mules  with  many  a  weary  load, 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 


And  oxen,  dragging  their  creaking  cars, 
Came  and  went  on  the  mountain  road. 

Where  was  the  galleon  all  this  while : 

Wrecked  on  some  lonely  coral  isle  ? 

Burnt  by  the  roving  sea-marauders, 

Or  sailing  north  under  secret  orders  ? 

Had  she  found  the  Anian  passage  famed, 

By  lying  Moldonado  claimed, 

And  sailed  through  the  sixty-fifth  degree 

Direct  to  the  North  Atlantic  sea  ? 

Or  had  she  found  the  "  River  of  Kings,'5 

Of  which  De  Fonte  told  such  strange  things 

In  sixteen  forty  ?    Never  a  sign, 

East  or  West  or  under  the  line, 

They  saw  of  the  missing  galleon  ; 

Never  a  sail  or  plank  or  chip, 

They  found  of  the  long-lost  treasure- ship, 

Or  enough  to  build  a  tale  upon. 

But  when  she  was  lost,  and  where  and  how, 

Are  the  facts  we  're  coming  to  just  now. 

Take,  if  you  please,  the  chart  of  that  day 
Published  at  Madrid,  — por  el  Rey  ; 
Look  for  a  spot  in  the  old  South  Sea, 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 
Longitude,  west  of  Madrid  :  there, 


158 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 


Under  the  equatorial  glare, 

Just  where  the  East  and  West  are  one, 

You  '11  find  the  missing  galleon,  — 

You  '11  find  the  San  Gregorio,  yet 

Riding  the  seas,  with  sails  all  set, 

Fresh  as  upon  the  very  day 

She  sailed  from  Acapulco  Bay. 

How  did  she  get  there  ?    What  strange  spell 

Kept  her  two  hundred  years  so  well, 

Free  from  decay  and  mortal  taint  ? 

What  ?  but  the-  prayers  of  a  patron  saint ! 

A  hundred  leagues  from  Manilla  town, 

The  San  Gregorio's  helm  came  down; 

Round  she  went  on  her  heel,  and  not 

A  cable's  length  from  a  galliot 

That  rocked  on  the  waters,  just  abreast 

Of  the  galleon's  course,  which  was  west-sou-west. 

Then  said  the  galleon's  commandante, 
General  Pedro  Sobriente 
(That  was  his  rank  on  land  and  main, 
A  regular  custom  of  Old  Spain), 
a  My  pilot  is  dead  of  scurvy  :  may 
I  ask  the  longitude,  time,  and  day  ?  " 
The  first  two  given  and  compared  ; 
The  third,  —  the  commandante  stared  ! 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 


159 


The  first  of  June  ?    I  make  it  second." 

Said  the  stranger,  "Then  you  've  wrongly-reckoned  ; 

I  make  it  first :  as  you  came  this  way, 

You  should  have  lost  —  d'  ye  see  —  a  day ; 

Lost  a  day,  as  plainly  see, 

On  the  hundred  and  eightieth  degree." 

Lost  a  day  ?  "    "  Yes  :  if  not  rude, 

When  did  you  make  east  longitude  ?  " 

On  the  ninth  of  May,  —  our  patron's  day." 

On  the  ninth  ?  —  you  had  no  ninth  of  May  ! 

Eighth  and  tenth  was  there  ;  but  stay  "  — 

Too  late  ;  for  the  galleon  bore  away. 

Lost  was  the  day  they  should  have  kept, 
Lost  unheeded  and  lost  unwept ; 
Lost  in  a  way  that  made  search  vain, 
Lost  in  the  trackless  and  boundless  main; 
Lost  like  the  day  of  Job's  awful  curse, 
In  his  third  chapter,  third  and  fourth  verse  ; 
Wrecked  was  their  patron's  only  day, — 
What  would  the  holy  fathers  say  ? 

Said  the  Fray  Antonio  Estavan, 
The  galleon's  chaplain,  —  a  learned  man,— 
Nothing  is  lost  that  you  can  regain  : 
And  the  way  to  look  for  a  thing  is  plain 
To  go  where  you  lost  it,  back  again. 


160 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 


Back  with  your  galleon  till  you  see 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree. 
Wait  . till  the  rolling  year  goes  round, 
And  there  will  the  missing  day  be  found ; 
For  you  '11  find  —  if  computation 's  true  — 
That  sailing  east  will  give  to  you 
Not  only  one  ninth  of  May,  but  two,  — 
One  for  the  good  saint's  present  cheer, 
And  one  for  the  day  we  lost  last  year/' 

Back  to  the  spot  sailed  the  galleon ; 

Where,  for  a  twelve-month,  off  and  on 

The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree, 

She  rose  and  fell  on  a  tropic  sea : 

But  lo  !  when  it  came  to  the  ninth  of  May, 

All  of  a  sudden  becalmed  she  lay 

One  degree  from  that  fatal  spot, 

Without  the  power  to  move  a  knot ; 

And  of  course  the  moment  she  lost  her  way, 

Gone  was  her  chance  to  save  that  day. 

To  cut  a  lengthening  story  short, 

She  never  saved  it.    Made  the  sport 

Of  evil  spirits  and  baffling  wind, 

She  was  always  before  or  just  behind, 

One  day  too  soon,  or  one  day  too  late, 

And  the  sun,  meanwhile,  would  never  wait : 


THE  LOST  GALLEON, 


161 


She  had  two  eighths,  as  she  idly  lay, 

Two  tenths,  but  never  a  ninth  of  May ; 

And  there  she  rides  through  two  hundred  years 

Of  dreary  penance  and  anxious  fears  : 

Yet  through  the  grace  of  the  saint  she  served, 

Captain  and  crew  are  still  preserved. 

By  a  computation  that  still  holds  good, 
Made  by  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 
The  San  Gregorio  will  cross  that  line 
In  nineteen  hundred  and  thirty-nine  : 
Just  three  hundred  years  to  a  day 
From  the  time  she  lost  the  ninth  of  May. 
And  the  folk  in  Acapulco  town, 
Over  the  waters,  looking  down, 
Will  see  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun 
The  sails  of  the  missing  galleon, 
And  the  royal  standard  of  Philip  Bey  ; 
The  gleaming  mast  and  glistening  spar, 
As  she  nears  the  surf  of  the  outer  bar. 
A  Te  Deum  sung  on  her  crowded  deck, 
An  odor  of  spice  along  the  shore, 
A  crash,  a  cry  from  a  shattered  wreck,  — 
And  the  yearly  galleon  sails  no  more, 
In  or  out  of  the  olden  bay ; 
For  the  blessed  patron  has  found  his  day. 
11 


THE  LOST  GALLEON. 

Such  is  the  legend.    Hear  this  truth : 
Over  the  trackless  past,  somewhere, 
Lie  the  lost  days  of  our  tropic  youth, 
Only  regained  by  faith  and  prayer, 
Only  recalled  by  prayer  and  plaint : 
Each  lost  day  has  its  patron  saint ! 


A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY. 


I  read  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 
In  Washington's  chief  est  avenue,  — 
Two  Hundred  Thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number,  — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 

Would  only  my  verse  encumber,  — 
Till  I  fell  in  a  reverie,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo !  in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.    On  each  hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico,  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres,  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare ; 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square  ; 


164     SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY- 


But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 
The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread ; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom's  bugle's  warning : 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  State  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires  ; 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 
Of  wailing  and  lamentation : 


SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY.  165 


The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead,  —  the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever  swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison  pen  ; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright ; 
I  thought  —  perhaps 't  was  the  pale  moonlight  — 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers  ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished  ; 
No  mark  —  save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer  ; 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky  ; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves  —  for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array, 
So  all  night  long  till  the  morning  gray 
I  watched  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder,  — 


166    SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY. 


Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  length'ning  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come  ;  and  I  spake  —  and  lo  !  that  sign 
Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 


part  n. 


BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN. 

Behind  the  footlights  hangs  the  rusty  baize, 

A  trifle  shabby  in  the  upturned  blaze 

Of  flaring  gas,  and  curious  eyes  that  gaze. 

The  stage,  methinks,  perhaps  is  none  too  wide, 

And  hardly  fit  for  royal  Richard's  stride, 

Or  Falstaff's  bulk,  or  Denmark's  youthful  pride. 

Ah,  well !  no  passion  walks  its  humble  boards  ; 
O'er  it  no  king  nor  valiant  Hector  lords : 
The  simplest  skill  is  all  its  space  affords. 

The  song  and  jest,  the  dance  and  trifling  play, 
The  local  hit  at  follies  of  the  day, 
The  trick  to  pass  an  idle  hour  away,  — 

For  these  no  trumpets  that  announce  the  Moor, 
No  blast  that  makes  the  hero's  welcome  sure,  — 
A  single  fiddle  in  the  overture ! 


THE  STAGE-DRIVER'S  STORY. 

It  was  the  stage-driver's  story,  as  he  stood  with  his  back 
to  the  wheelers, 

Quietly  flecking  his  whip,  and  turning  his  quid  of  to- 
bacco ; 

While  on  the  dusty  road,  and  blent  with  the  rays  of  the 
moonlight, 

We  saw  the  long  curl  of  his  lash  and  the  juice  of  tobacco 
descending. 

"  Danger  !  Sir,  I  believe  you,  —  indeed,  I  may  say  on 
that  subject, 

You  your  existence  might  put  to  the  hazard  and  turn  of 
a  wager. 

I  have  seen  danger  ?  Oh,  no  !  not  me,  sir,  indeed,  I  as- 
sure you  : 

'T  was  only  the  man  with  the  dog  that  is  sitting  alone 
in  yon  wagon. 

"  It  was  the  Geiger  Grade,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the 
summit : 

Black  as  your  hat  was  the  night,  and  never  a  star  in  the 
heavens. 


THE  STAGE-DRIVERS  STORY.  169 

Thundering  clown  the  grade,  the  gravel  and  stones  we 
sent  flying 

Over  the  precipice  side,  —  a  thousand  feet  plumb  to  the 
bottom. 

"  Half-way  down  the  grade  I  felt,  sir,  a  thrilling  and 
creaking, 

Then  a  lurch  to  one  side,  as  we  hung  on  the  bank  of 
the  canon  ; 

Then,  lookiug  up  the  road,  I  saw,  in  the  distance  be- 
hind me, 

The  off-hind  wheel  of  the  coach  just  loosed  from  its 
axle,  and  following. 

"  One  glance  alone  I  gave,  then  gathered  together  my 
ribbons, 

Shouted,  and  flung  them,  outspread,  on  the  straining 

necks  of  my  cattle  ; 
Screamed  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  lashed  the  air  in 

my  frenzy, 

While  down  the  Geiger  Grade,  on  three  wheels,  the 
vehicle  thundered. 

"  Speed  was  our  only  chance,  when  again  came  the  omi- 
nous rattle  : 

Crack,  and  another  wheel  slipped  away,  and  was  lost  in 
the  darkness. 


170  THE  STAGE-DRIVERS  STORY. 


Two  only  now  were  left ;  yet  such  was  our  fearful  mo- 
mentum, 

Upright,  erect,  and  sustained  on  two  wheels,  the  vehicle 
thundered. 

"  As  some  huge  bowlder,  unloosed  from  its  rocky  shelf 
on  the  mountain, 

Drives  before  it  the  hare  and  the  timorous  squirrel,  far- 
leaping, 

So  down  the  Geiger  Grade  rushed  the  Pioneer  coach, 
and  before  it 

Leaped  the  wild  horses,  and  shrieked  in  advance  of  the 
danger  impending. 

"  But  to  be  brief  in  my  tale.  Again,  ere  we  came  to 
the  level, 

Slipped  from  its  axle  a  wheel ;  so  that,  to  be  plain  in 
my  statement, 

A  matter  of  twelve  hundred  yards  or  more,  as  the  dis- 
tance may  be, 

We  travelled  upon  one  wheel,  until  we  drove  up  to  the 
station. 

"  Then,  sir,  we  sank  in  a  heap  ;  but,  picking  myself 

from  the  ruins, 
I  heard  a  noise  up  the  grade ;  and  looking,  I  saw  in  the 

distance 


TEE  STAGE  DRIVERS  STORY.  171 

The  three  wheels  following  still,  like  moons  on  the 

horizon  whirling, 
Till,  circling,  they  gracefully  sank  on  the  road  at  the 

side  of  the  station. 

"  This  is  my  story,  sir  ;  a  trifle,  indeed,  I  assure  you. 
Much  more,  perchance,  might  be  said ;  but  I  hold  him, 

of  all  men,  most  lightly 
Who  swerves  from  the  truth  in  his  tale  —  No,  thank 

you  —  Well,  since  you  are  pressing, 
Perhaps  I  don't  care  if  I  do  :  you  may  give  me  the 

same,  Jim, — no  sugar." 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE. 


A  CHEMICAL  NARRATIVE. 

Certain  facts  which  serve  to  explain 
The  physical  charms  of  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Who,  as  the  common  reports  obtain, 
Surpassed  in  complexion  the  lily  and  rose  ; 
With  a  very  sweet  mouth  and  a  retrousse  nose ; 
A  figure  like  Hebe's,  or  that  which  revolves 
In  a  milliner's  window,  and  partially  solves 
That  question  which  mentor  and  moralist  pains, 
If  grace  may  exist  minus  feeling  or  brains. 

Of  course  the  young  lady  had  beaux  by  the  score, 
All  that  she  wanted,  —  what  girl  could  ask  more  ? 
Lovers  that  sighed,  and  lovers  that  swore, 
Lovers  that  danced,  and  lovers  that  played, 
Men  ol:  profession,  of  leisure,  and  trade  ; 
But  one,  who  was  destined  to  take  the  high  part 
Of  holding  that  mythical  treasure,  her  heart,  — 
This  lover  —  the  wonder  and  envy  of  town  — 
Was  a  practising  chemist,  —  a  fellow  called  Brown. 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE.  173 


I  might  here  remark  that 't  was  doubted  by  many, 
In  regard  to  the  heart,  if  Miss  Addie  had  any  ; 
But  no  one  could  look  in  that  eloquent  face, 
With  its  exquisite  outline,  and  features  of  grace, 
And  mark,  through  the  transparent  skin,  how  the  tide 
Ebbed  and  flowed  at  the  impulse  of  passion  or  pride,  — 
None  could  look,  who  believed  in  the  blood's  circulation 
As  argued  by  Harvey,  but  saw  confirmation, 
That  here,  at  least,  Nature  had  triumphed  o'er  art, 
And,  as  far  as  complexion  went,  she  had  a  heart. 

But  this,  par  parenthesis.    Brown  was  the  man 
Preferred  of  all  others  to  carry  her  fan, 
Hook  her  glove,  drape  her  shawl,  and  do  all  that  a 
belle 

May  demand  of  .the  lover  she  wants  to  treat  well. 

Folks  wondered  and  stared  that  a  fellow  called  Brown  — 

Abstracted  and  solemn,  in  manner  a  clown, 

111  dressed,  with  a  lingering  smell  of  the  shop  — 

Should  appear  as  her  escort  at  party  or  hop. 

Some  swore  he  had  cooked  up  some  villainous  charm, 

Or  love  philter,  not  in  the  regular  Pharm- 

Acopea,  and  thus,  from  pure  malis  prepense, 

Had  bewitched  and  bamboozled  the  young  lady's  sense  ; 

Others  thought,  with  more  reason,  the  secret  to  lie 

In  a  magical  wash  or  indelible  dye ; 

While  Society,  with  its  censorious  eye 


174  ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE. 


And  judgment  impartial,  stood  ready  to  damn 
What  was  n't  improper  as  being  a  sham. 

For  a  fortnight  the  townfolk  had  all  been  agog 

With  a  party,  the  finest  the  season  had  seen, 

To  be  given  in  honor  of  Miss  Pollywog, 

Who  was  just  coming  out  as  a  belle  of  sixteen. 

The  guests  were  invited :  but  one  night  before, 

A  carriage  drew  up  at  the  modest  back-door 

Of  Brown's  lab'ratory;  and,  full  in  the  glare 

Of  a  big  purple  bottle,  some  closely-veiled  fair 

Alighted  and  entered  :  to  make  matters  plain, 

Spite  of  veils  and  disguises,  —  't  was  Addie  De  Laine. 

As  a  bower  for  true  love,  't  was  hardly  the  one 
That  a  lady  would  choose  to  be  wooed  in  or  won  : 
No  odor  of  rose  or  sweet  jessamine's  sigh 
Breathed  a  fragrance  to  hallow  their  pledge  of  troth  by, 
Nor  the  balm  that  exhales  from  the  odorous  thyme; 
But  the.  gaseous  effusions  of  chloride  of  lime, 
And  salts,  which  your  chemist  delights  to  explain 
As  the  base  of  the  smell  of  the  rose  and  the  drain. 
Think  of  this,  O  ye  lovers  of  sweetness  !  and  know 
What  you  smell,  when  you  snuff  up  Lubin  or  Pinaud. 

I  pass  by  the  greetings,  the  transports  and  bliss, 
Which,  of  course,  duly  followed  a  meeting  like  this, 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE.  175 

# 

And  come  down  to  business  ;  —  for  such  the  intent 
Of  the  lady  who  now  o'er  the  crucible  leant, 
In  the  glow  of  a  furnace  of  carbon  and  lime, 
Like  a  fairy  called  up  in  the  new  pantomime  ;  — 
And  give  but  her  words  as  she  coyly  looked  down, 
In  reply  to  the  questioning  glances  of  Brown ; 
"  I  am  taking  the  drops,  and  am  using  the  paste, 
And  the  little  white  powders  that  had  a  sweet  taste, 
Which  you  told  me  would  brighten  the  glance  of  my 
eye, 

And  the  depilatory,  and  also  the  dye, 
And  I 'm  charmed  with  the  trial ;  and  now,  my  dear 
Brown, 

I  have  one  other  favor,  —  now,  duckey,  don't  frown,  — 

Only  one,  for  a  chemist  and  genius  like  you 

But  a  trifle,  and  one  you  can  easily  do. 

Now  listen :  to-morrow,  you  know,  is  the  night 

Of  the  birthday  soiree  of  that  Polly wog  fright ; 

And  I  'm  to  be  there,  and  the  dress  I  shall  wear 

Is  too  lovely  ;  but  "  —  "  But  what  then,  ma  chere?  " 

Said  Brown,  as  the  lady  came  to  a  full  stop, 

And  glanced  round  the  shelves  of  the  little  back  shop. 

"  Well,  I  want  —  I  want  something  to  fill  out  the  skirt 

To  the  proper  dimension,  without  being  girt 

In  a  stiff  crinoline,  or  caged  in  a  hoop 

That  shows  through  one's  skirt  like  the  bars  of  a  coop  ; 

Something  light,  that  a  lady  may  waltz  in,  or  polk, 

With  a  freedom  that  none  but  you  masculine  folk 


176 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE. 


Ever  know.    For,  however  poor  woman  aspires, 
She 's  always  bound  down  to  the  earth  by  these  wires* 
Are  you  listening?  nonsense  !  don't  stare  like  a  spoon. 
Idiotic  ;  some  light  thing,  and  spacious,  and  soon  — 
Something  like  —  well,  in  fact — something  like  a  bal- 
loon !  " 

Here  she  paused ;  and  here  Brown,  overcome  by  sur- 
prise, 

Gave  a  doubting  assent  with  still  wondering  eyes, 
And  the  lady  departed.    But  just  at  the  door 
Something  happened,  —  't  is  true,  it  had  happened  before 
In  this  sanctum  of  science,  — a  sibilant  sound, 
Like  some  element  just  from  its  trammels  unbound, 
Or  two  substances  that  their  affinities  found. 

The  night  of  the  anxiously  looked-for  soiree 
Had  come,  with  its  fair  ones  in  gorgeous  array ; 
With  the  rattle  of  wheels,  and  the  tinkle  of  bells, 
And  the  "  How  do  ye  dos,"  and  the  "  Hope  you  are 
wells 

And  the  crash  in  the  passage,  and  last  lingering  look 
You  give  as  you  hang  your  best  hat  on  the  hook ; 
The  rush  of  hot  air  as  the  door  opens  wTide  ; 
And  your  entry,  —  that  blending  of  self-possessed  pride 
And  humility  shown  in  your  perfect-bred  stare 
At  the  folk,  as  if  wondering  how  they  got  there  ; 
With  other  tricks  worthy  of  Vanity  Fair. 
Meanwhile  that  safe  topic,  the  heat  of  the  room, 


ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LAINE. 


177 


Already-  was  loosing  its  freshness  and  bloom  ; 
Young  people  were  yawning,  and  wondering  when 
The  dance  would  come  off,  and  why  did  n't  it  then  : 
When  a  vague  expectation  was  thrilling  the  crowd, 
Lo,  the  door  swung  its  hinges  with  utterance  proud ! 
And  Pompey  announced,  with  a  trumpet-like  strain, 
The  entrance  of  Brown  and  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 

She  entered :  but  oh,  how  imperfect  the  verb 
To  express  to  the  senses  her  movement  superb ! 
To  say  that  she  "  sailed  in  "  more  clearly  might  tell 
Her  grace  in  its  buoyant  and  billowy  swell. 
Her  robe  was  a  vague  circumambient  space, 
With  shadowy  boundaries  made  of  point-lace. 
The  rest  was  but  guess-work,  and  well  might  defy 
The  power  of  critical  feminine  eye 
To  define  or  describe :  't  were  as  futile  to  try 
The  gossamer  web  of  the  cirrus  to  trace, 
Floating  far  in  the  blue  of  a  warm  summer  sky. 

'Midst  the  humming  of  praises  and  the  glances  of  beaux, 
That  greet  our  fair  maiden  wherever  she  goes, 
Brown  slipped  like  a  shadow,  grim,  silent,  and  black, 
With  a  look  of  anxiety,  close  in  her  track. 
Once  he  whispered  aside  in  her  delicate  ear, 
A  sentence  of  warning,  —  it  might  be  of  fear  ; 
"  Don't  stand  in  a  draught,  if  you  value  your  life." 
12 


178  ASPIRING  MISS  DE  LA1NE. 


(Nothing  more,  —  such  advice  might  be  given  your  wife 

Or  your  sweetheart,  in  times  of  bronchitis  and  cough, 

Without  mystery,  romance,  or  frivolous  scoff.) 

But  hark  to  the  music:  the  dance  has  begun. 

The  closely-draped  windows  wide  open  are  flung ; 

The  notes  of  the  piccolo,  joyous  and  light, 

Like  bubbles  burst  forth  on  the  warm  summer  ni^ht. 

Round  about  go  the  dancers  ;  in  circles  they  fly  ; 

Trip,  trip,  go  their  feet  as  their  skirts  eddy  by ; 

And  swifter  and  lighter,  but  somewhat  too  plain, 

Whisks  the  fair  circumvolving  Miss  Addie  De  Laine. 

Taglioni  and  Cerito  well  might  have  pined 

For  the  vigor  and  ease  that  her  movements  combined ; 

E'en  Rigelboche  never  flung  higher  her  robe 

In  the  naughtiest  city  that 's  known  on  the  globe. 

'T  was  amazing,  't  was  scandalous  :  lost  in  surprise, 

Some  opened  their  mouths,  and  a  few  shut  their  eyes. 

But  hark !    At  the  moment  Miss  Addie  De  Laine, 
Circling  round  at  the  outer  edge  of  an  ellipse, 
Which  brought  her  fair  form  to  the  window  again, 
From  the  arms  of  her  partner  incautiously  slips ! 
And  a  shriek  fills  the  air,  and  the  music  is  still, 
And  the  crowd  gather  round  where  her  partner  for- 
lorn 

Still  frenziedly  points  from  the  wide  window-sill 
Into  space  and  the  night ;  for  Miss  Addie  was  gone  ! 


ASPIRING  MISS  BE  LAINE. 


179 


Gone  like  the  bubble  that  bursts  in  the  sun ; 
Gone  like  the  grain  when  the  reaper  is  done ; 
Gone  like  the  dew  on  the  fresh  morning  grass ; 
Gone  without  parting  farewell ;  and  alas  ! 
Gone  with  a  flavor  of  Hydrogen  Gas. 

When  the  weather  is  pleasant,  you  frequently  meet 
A  white-headed  man  slowly  pacing  the  street ; 
His  trembling  hand  shading  his  lack-lustre  eye, 
Half  blind  with  continually  scanning  the  sky. 
Rumor  points  him  as  some  astronomical  sage, 
Reperusing  by  day  the  celestial  page ; 
But  the  reader,  sagacious,  will  recognize  Brown, 
Trying  vainly  to  conjure  his  lost  sweetheart  down, 
And  learn  the  stern  moral  this  story  must  teach, 
That  Genius  may  lift  its  love  out  of  its  reach. 


CALIFORNIA  MADRIGAL. 


ON  THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING. 

Oh  come,  my  beloved  !  from  thy  winter  abode, 
From  thy  home  on  the  Yuba,  thy  ranch  overflowed: 
For  the  waters  have  fallen,  the  winter  has  fled, 
And  the  river  once  more  has  returned  to  its  bed. 

Oh,  mark  how  the  spring  in  its  beauty  is  near! 
How  the  fences  and  tules  once  more  reappear  ! 
How  soft  lies  the  mud  on  the  banks  of  yon  slough 
By  the  hole  in  the  levee  the  waters  broke  through ! 

All  Nature,  dear  Chloris,  is  blooming  to  greet 
The  glance  of  your  eye,  and  the  tread  of  your  feet ; 
For  the  trails  are  all  open,  the  roads  are  all  free, 
And  the  highwayman's  whistle  is  heard  on  the  lea. 

Again  swings  the  lash  on  the  high  mountain  trail, 
And  the  pipe  of  the  packer  is  scenting  the  gale  ; 
The  oath  and  the  jest  ringing  high  o'er  the  plain, 
Where  the  smut  is  not  always  confined  to  the  grain. 


CALIFORNIA  MADRIGAL. 


181 


Once  more  glares  the  sunlight  on  awning  and  roof, 
Once  more  the  red  clay 's  pulverized  by  the  hoof, 
Once  more  the  dust  powders  the  "  outsides  "  with  red, 
Once  more  at  the  station  the  whiskey  is  spread. 

Then  fly  with  me,  love,  ere  the  summer 's  begun, 
And  the  mercury  mounts  to  one  hundred  and  one  ; 
Ere  the  grass  now  so  green  shall  be  withered  and  sear, 
In  the  spring  that  obtains  but  one  month  in  the  year. 


ST.  THOMAS. 


A  GEOGRAPHICAL  SURVEY. 
1868. 

Very  fair  and  full  of  promise 
Lay  the  island  of  St.  Thomas : 
Ocean  o'er  its  reefs  and  bars 
Hid  its  elemental  scars  ; 
Groves  of  cocoanut  and  guava 
Grew  above  its  fields  of  lava. 
So  the  gem  of  the  Antilles,  — 
"Isles  of  Eden,"  where  no  ill  is, — 
Like  a  great  green  turtle  slumbered 
On  the  sea  that  it  encumbered. 

Then  said  William  Henry  Seward, 
As  he  cast  his  eye  to  leeward, 
"  Quite  important  to  our  commerce 
Is  this  island  of  St.  Thomas." 

Said  the  Mountain  rangers,  "  Thank  'ee, 
But  we  cannot  stand  the  Yankee 


ST.  THOMAS. 


O'er  our  scars  and  fissures  poring, 
In  our  very  vitals  boring, 
In  our  sacred  caverns  prying, 
All  our  secret  problems  trying,  — 
Digging,  blasting,  with  dynamit 
Mocking  all  our  thunders  !    Damn  it ! 
Other  lands  may  be  more  civil, 
Bust  our  lava  crust,  if  we  will." 

Said  the  Sea,  —  its  white  teeth  gnashing 
Through  its  coral-reef  lips  flashing,  — 
"  Shall  I  let  this  scheming  mortal 
Shut  with  stone  my  shining  portal, 
Curb  my  tide,  and  check  my  play, 
Fence  with  wharves  my  shining  bay  ? 
Rather  let  me  be  drawn  out 
In  one  awful  water-spout !  " 

Said  the  black-browed  Hurricane, 
Brooding  down  the  Spanish  main, 
"  Shall  I  see  my  forces,  zounds  ! 
Measured  by  square  inch  and  pounds, 
With  detectives  at  my  back 
When  I  double  on  my  track, 
And  my  secret  paths  made  clear, 
Published  o'er  the  hemisphere 
To  each  gaping,  prying  crew  ? 
Shall  I?    Blow  me  if  I  do!" 


ST.  THOMAS. 

So  the  Mountains  shook  and  thundered, 
And  the  Hurricane  came  sweeping, 
And  the  people  stared  and  wondered 
As  the  Sea  came  on  them  leaping  : 
Each,  according  to  his  promise, 
Made  things  lively  at  St.  Thomas. 

Till  one  morn,  when  Mr.  Seward 
Cast  his  weather  eye  to  leeward, 
There  was  not  an  inch  of  dry  land 
Left  to  mark  his  recent  island. 
Not  a  flagstaff  or  a  sentry, 
Not  a  wharf  or  port  of  entry,  — 
Only  —  to  cut  matters  shorter  — 
Just  a  patch  of  muddy  water 
In  the  open  ocean  lying, 
And  a  gull  above  it  flying. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  CLIFF  HOUSE,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

Where  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Drives  the  spray  of  roaring  seas 
That  the  Cliff-House  balconies 

Overlook : 
There,  in  spite  of  rain  that  balked, 
With  his  sandals  duly  chalked, 
Once  upon  a  tight-rope  walked 

Mr.  Cooke. 

But  the  jester's  lightsome  mien, 
And  his  spangles  and  his  sheen, 
All  had  vanished,  when  the  scene 

He  forsook ;   

Yet  in  some  delusive  hope. 
In  some  vague  desire  to  cope, 
One  still  came  to  view  the  rope 

Walked  by  Cooke. 


186  THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE. 


Amid  Beauty's  bright  array, 
On  that  strange  eventful  day, 
Partly  hidden  from  the  spray, 

In  a  nook, 
Stood  Florinda  Vere  de  Vere  : 
Who  "with  wind-dishevelled  hair, 
,  And  a  rapt,  distracted  air, 

Gazed  on  Cooke. 

Then  she  turned,  and  quickly  cried 

To  her  lover  at  her  side, 

While  her  form  with  love  and  pride 

Wildly  shook, 
"  Clifford  Snook  !  oh,  hear  me  now  ! 
Here  I  break  each  plighted  vow  : 
There 's  but  one  to  whom  I  bow, 

And  that 's  Cooke ! 99 

Haughtily  that  young  man  spoke  : 
"I  descend  from  noble  folk. 
1  Seven  Oaks,'  and  then  i  Se'nnoak/ 

Lastly  Snook, 
Is  the  way  my  name  I  trace : 
Shall  a  youth  of  noble  race 
In  affairs  of  love  give  place 

To  a  Cooke  ?  » 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE. 


"  Clifford  Snook,  I  know  thy  claim 
To  that  lineage  and  name, 
And  I  think  I  Ve  read  the  same 

In  Horne  Tooke  j 

But  I  swear,  by  all  divine, 
Never,  never  to  be  thine, 
'Till  thou  canst  upon  yon  line 

Walk  like  Cooke." 

Though  to  that  gymnastic  feat 
He  no  closer  might  compete 
Than  to  strike  a  balance-sheet 

In  a  book  5 
Yet  thenceforward,  from  that  day, 
He  his  figure  would  display 
In  some  wild  athletic  way, 

After  Cooke* 

On  some  household  eminence, 
On  a  clothes-line  or  a  fence, 
Over  ditches,  drains,  and  thence 

O'er  a  brook, 

He,  by  high  ambition  led, 
Ever  walked  and  balanced ; 
Till  the  people,  wondering,  said, 

"  How  like  Cooke ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE. 


Step  by  step  did  he  proceed, 
Nerved  by  valor,  not  by  greed, 
And  at  last  the  crowning  deed 

Undertook : 
Misty  was  the  midnight  air, 
And  the  cliff  was  bleak  and  bare, 
When  he  came  to  do  and  dare 

Just  like  Cooke. 

Through  the  darkness,  o'er  the  flow, 
Stretched  the  line  where  he  should  £0 
Straight  across,  as  flies  the  crow 

Or  the  rook : 
One  wild  glance  around  he  cast ; 
Then  he  faced  the  ocean  blast, 
And  he  strode  the  cable  last 

Touched  by  Cooke. 

Vainly  roared  the  angry  seas  ; 
Vainly  blew  the  ocean  breeze  ; 
But,  alas  !  the  walker's  knees 

Had  a  crook ; 
And  before  he  reached  the  rock 
Did  they  both  together  knock, 
And  he  stumbled  with  a  shock  — 

Unlike  Cooke ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE.  189 


Downward  dropping  in  the  dark, 
Like  an  arrow  to  its  mark, 
Or  a  fish-pole  when  a  shark 

Bites  the  hook, 
Dropped  the  pole  he  could  not  save, 
Dropped  the  walker,  and  the  wave 
Swift  ingulfed  the  rival  brave 

Of  J.  Cooke! 

Came  a  roar  across  the  sea 

Of  sea-lions  in  their  glee, 

In  a  tongue  remarkably- 
Like  Chinnook ; 

And  the  maddened  sea-gull  seemed, 

Still  to  utter,  as  he  screamed, 
"  Perish  thus  the  wretch  who  deemed 

Himself  Cooke!" 

But,  on  misty  moonlit  nights, 
Comes  a  skeleton  in  tights, 
Walks  once  more  the  giddy  heights 

He  mistook ; 
And  unseen  to  mortal  eyes, 
Purged  of  grosser  earthly  ties, 
Now  at  last  in  spirit  guise 

Outdoes  Cooke. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  MR.  COOKE. 


Still  the  sturdy  ocean  breeze 
Sweeps  the  spray  of  roaring  seas, 
Where  the  Cliff-House  balconies 

Overlook ; 
And  the  maidens  in  their  prime, 
Reading  of  this  mournful  rhyme, 
Weep  where,  in  the  olden  time, 

Walked  J.  Cooke. 


THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE. 


Beetling  walls  with  ivy  grown, 
Frowning  heights  of  mossy  stone ; 
Turret,  with  its  flaunting  flag 
Flung  from  battlemented  crag; 
Dungeon-keep  and  fortalice 
Looking  down  a  precipice 
O'er  the  darkly  glancing  wave 
By  the  Lurline-haunted  cave  ; 
Robber  haunt  and  maiden  bower, . 
Home  of  Love  and  Crime  and  Power,  — 
That 's  the  scenery,  in  fine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

One  bold  baron,  double-dyed 
Bigamist  and  parricide, 
And,  as  most  the  stories  run, 
Partner  of  the  Evil  One  ; 
Injured  innocence  in  white, 
Fair  but  idiotic  quite, 
Wringing  of  her  lily  hands  ; 
Valor  fresh  from  Paynim  lands, 


192 


THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE. 


Abbot  ruddy,  hermit  pale, 
Minstrel  fraught  with  many  a  tale, — 
Are  the  actors  that  combine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Bell-mouthed  flagons  round  a  board ; 
Suits  of  armor,  shield,  and  sword; 
Kerchief  with  its  bloody  stain  ; 
Ghosts  of  the  untimely  slain  ; 
Thunder-clap  and  clanking  chain  ; 
Headsman's  block  and  shining  axe  ; 
Thumbscrews,  crucifixes,  racks; 
Midnight-tolling  chapel  bell, 
Heard  across  the  gloomy  fell,  — 
These,  and  other  pleasant  facts, 
Are  the  properties  that  shine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Maledictions,  whispered  vows 
Underneath  the  linden  boughs  ; 
Murder,  bigamy,  and  theft ; 
Travellers  of  goods  bereft ; 
Rapine,  pillage,  arson,  spoil,— 
Everything  but  honest  toil, 
Are  the  deeds  that  best  define 
Every  Legend  of  the  Rhine. 


THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE. 


That  Virtue  always  meets  reward, 
But  quicker  when  it  wears  a  sword  ; 
That  Providence  has  special  care 
Of  gallant  knight  and  lady  fair  ; 
That  villains,  as  a  thing  of  course, 
Are  always  haunted  by  remorse,— 
Is  the  moral,  I  opine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

13 


MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS. 


BEING   THE    ONLY   GENUINE    SEQUEL    TO  "MAUD 
MULLER." 

Maud  Muller,  all  that  summer  clay, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay ; 

Yet,  looking  down  the  distant  lane, 
She  hoped  the  judge  would  come  again. 

But  when  he  came,  with  smile  and  bow, 

Maud  only  blushed,  and  stammered,  "Ha-ow?" 

And  spoke  of  her  "  pa,"  and  wondered  whether 
He 'd  give  consent  they  should  wed  together. 

Old  Muller  burst  in  tears,  and  then 

Begged  that  the  judge  would  lend  him  "  ten  ; " 

For  trade  was  dull,  and  wages  low, 

And  the  "  craps,"  this  year,  were  somewhat  slow. 


MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS. 


195 


And  ere  the  languid  summer  died, 
Sweet  Maud  became  the  judge's  bride. 

But,  on  the  day  that  they  were  mated, 
Maud's  brother  Bob  was  intoxicated ; 

And  Maud's  relations,  twelve  in  all, 
Were  very  drunk  at  the  judge's  hall. 

And  when  the  summer  came  again, 
The  young  bride  bore  him  babies  twain. 

And  the  judge  was  blest,  but  thought  it  strange 
That  bearing  children  made  such  a  change : 

For  Maud  grew  broad  and  red  and  stout ; 
And  the  waist  that  his  arm  once  clasped  about 

Was  more  than  he  now  could  span.    And  he 
Sighed  as  he  pondered,  ruefully, 

How  that  which  in  Maud  was  native  grace 
In  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  out  of  place  ; 
s 

And  thought  of  the  twins,  and  wished  that  they 
Looked  less  like  the  man  who  raked  the  hay 


196 


MRS.  JUDGE  JENKINS. 


On  Muller's  farm,  and  dreamed  with  pain 
Of  the  day  he  wandered  down  the  lane. 

And,  looking  down  that  dreary  track, 
He  half  regretted  that  he  came  back. 

For,  had  he  waited,  he  might  have  wed 
Some  maiden  fair  and  thoroughbred. 

For  there  be  women  fair  as  she, 
Whose  verbs  and  nouns  do  more  agree. 

Alas  for  maiden  !  alas  for  judge  ! 

And  the  sentimental,  —  that's  one-half  " fudge ;* 

For  Maud  soon  thought  the  judge  a  bore, 
With  all  his  learning  and  all  his  lore. 

And  the  judge  would  have  bartered  Maud's  fair  face 
For  more  refinement  and  social  grace. 

If,  of  all  words  of  tongue  and  pen, 
The  saddest  are,  "  It  might  have  been," 

More  sad  are  these  we  daily  see : 
"It  is,  but  had  n't  ought  to  be." 


AVITOR. 


AN  AERIAL  RETROSPECT. 

What  was  it  filled  my  youthful  dreams, 
In  place  of  Greek  or  Latin  themes, 
Or  beauty's  wild,  bewildering  beams  ? 

Avitor  ? 

What  visions  and  celestial  scenes 
I  filled  with  aerial  machines,  — 
Montgolfier's and  Mr.  Green's! 

Avitor ! 

What  fairy  tales  seemed  things  of  course! 
The  rock  that  brought  Sindbad  across, 
The  Calendar's  own  winged-horse ! 

Avitor ! 

How  many  things  I  took  for  facts,  — 

Icarus  and  his  conduct  lax, 

And  how  he  sealed  his  fate  with  wax ! 

Avitor ! 

The  first  balloons  I  sought  to  sail, 
Soap-bubbles  fair,  but  all  too  frail, 


AUTOR. 


Or  kites,  —  but  thereby  hangs  a  tail. 

Avitor ! 

"Wliat  made  me  launch  from  attic  tall 

A  kitten  and  a  parasol, 

And  watch  their  bitter,  frightful  fall  ? 

Avitor. 

TThat  youthful  dreams  of  high  renown 
Bade  me  inflate  the  parson's  gown, 
That  went  not  up,  nor  yet  came  down  ? 

Avitor  ? 

My  first  ascent,  I  may  not  tell  : 
Enough  to  know  that  in  that  well 
My  first  high  aspirations  fell, 

Avitor ! 

My  other  failures  let  me  pass  : 
The  dire  explosions  ;  and,  alas! 
The  friends  I  choked  with  noxious  gas, 

Avitor ! 

For  lo  !  I  see  perfected  rise 
The  vision  of  my  boyish  eyes, 
The  messenger  of  upper  skies, 

Avitor ! 


A  AVHITE-PINE  BALLAD. 

Recently  with  Samuel  Johnson  this  occasion  I  im- 
proved, 

Whereby  certain  gents  of  affluence  I  hear  were  greatly 
moved ; 

But  not  all  of  Johnson's  folly,  although  multiplied  by 
nine, 

Could  compare  with  Milton  Perkins,  late  an  owner  in 
White  Pine. 

Johnson's  folly — to  be  candid  —  was  a  wild  desire  to 
treat 

Every  able  male  white  citizen  he  met  upon  the  street ; 
And  there  being  several  thousand  —  but  this  subject 
why  pursue  ! 

*T  is  with  Perkins,  and  not  Johnson,  that  to-day  we  have 
to  do. 

No :  not  wild  promiscuous  treating,  not  the  wine-cup's 
ruby  flow, 

But  the  female  of  his  species  brought  the  noble  Perkins 
low. 


200 


A  WHITE-PINE  BALLAD. 


'T  was  a  wild  poetic  fervor,  and  excess  of  sentiment, 
That  left  the  noble  Perkins  in  a  week  without  a  cent. 

"  Milton  Perkins/'  said  the  Siren,  "  not  thy  wealth  do  I 
admire, 

But  the  intellect  that  flashes  from  those  eyes  of  opal 
fire  ; 

And  methinks  the  name  thou  bearest  surely  cannot  be 
misplaced, 

And,  embrace  me,  Mister  Perkins ! "    Milton  Perkins 
her  embraced. 

But  I  grieve  to  state,  that  even  then,  as  she  was  wiping 
dry 

The  tear  of  sensibility  in  Milton  Perkins'  eye, 
She  prigged  his  diamond  bosom-pin,  and  that  her  wipe 
of  lace 

Did  seem  to  have  of  chloroform  a  most  suspicious  trace. 

Enough  that  Milton  Perkins  later  in  the  night  was 
found 

With  his  head  in  an  ash-barrel,  and  his  feet  upon  the 
ground ; 

And  he  murmured  "  Seraphina,"  and  he  kissed  his  hand, 
and  smiled 

On  a  party  who  went  through  him,  like  an  unresisting 
child. 


A  WHITE-PINE  BALLAD. 


201 


MORAL. 

Now  one  word  to  Pogonippers,  ere  this  subject  I  resign, 
La  this  tale  of  Milton  Perkins,  —  late  an  owner  in  White 
Pine,  — 

You  shall  see  that  wealth  and  women  are  deceitful,  just 
the  same ; 

And  the  tear  of  sensibility  has  salted  many  a  claim. 


WHAT  THE  WOLF  REALLY  SAID  TO  LITTLE 
RED  RIDING-HOOD. 


Wondering  maiden,  so  puzzled  and  fair, 
Why  dost  thou  murmur  and  ponder  and  stare  ? 
«  Why  are  my  eyelids  so  open  and  wild  ?  "  — 
Only  the  better  to  see  with,  my  child ! 
Only  the  better  and  clearer  to  view 
Cheeks  that  are  rosy,  and  eyes  that  are  blue. 

/ 

Dost  thou  still  wonder,  and  ask  why  these  arms 
Fill  thy  soft  bosom  with  tender  alarms, 
Swaying  so  wickedly  ?  —  are  they  misplaced, 
Clasping  or  shielding  some  delicate  waist : 
Hands  whose  coarse  sinews  may  fill  you  with  fear 
Only  the  better  protect  you,  my  dear  ! 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood,  when  in  the  street, 
Why  do  I  press  your  small  hand  when  we  meet  ? 
Why,  when  you  timidly  offered  your  cheek, 
Why  did  I  sigh,  and  why  did  n't  I  speak  ? 
Why,  well :  you  see  —  if  the  truth  must  appear  — 
I 'm  not  your  grandmother,  Riding-Hood,  dear  ! 


THE  RITUALIST. 


BY  A  COMMUNICANT  OF  u  ST.  JAMES'S." 

He  wore,  I  think,  a  chasuble,  the  day  when  first  we 
met ; 

A  stole  and  snowy  alb  likewise  :  I  recollect  it  yet. 
He  called  me  "daughter,"  as  he  raised  his  jewelled  hand 
to  bless ; 

And  then,  in  thrilling  undertones,  he  asked,  "  Would  I 

confess  ?  " 

0  mother,  dear !  blame  not  your  child,  if  then  on  bended 

knees 

1  dropped,  and  thought  of  Abelard,  and  also  Eloise ; 

Or  when,  beside  the  altar  high,  he  bowed  before  the 

I  envied  that  seraphic  kiss  he  gave  the  crucifix. 

The  cruel  world  may  think  it  wrong,  perhaps  may  deem 
me  weak, 

And,  speaking  of  that  sainted  man,  may  call  his  conduct 
"  cheek ; » 


204  THE  RITUALIST. 

And,  like  that  wicked  barrister  whom  Cousin  Harry 

quotes, 

May  termed  his  mixed  chalice  "  grog,"  his  vestments, 
"  petticoats." 

But,  whatso'er  they  do  or  say,  I  '11  build  a  Christian's 
hope 

On  incense  and  on  altar-lights,  on  chasuble  and  cope. 
Let  others  prove,  by  precedent,  the  faith  that  they  pro- 
fess : 

"  His  can't  be  wrong  "  that 's  symbolized  by  such  becom- 
ing dress. 


A  MORAL  VINDICATOR. 


If  Mr.  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  one  peculiar  quality, 
'T  was  his  severe  advocacy 
Of  conjugal  fidelity. 

His  views  of  heaven  were  very  free ; 
His  views  of  life  were  painfully 
Ridiculous  ;  but  fervently 
He  dwelt  on  marriage  sanctity. 

He  frequently  went  on  a  spree  ; 
But  in  his  wildest  revelry, 
On  this  especial  subject  he 
Betrayed  no  ambiguity. 

And  though  at  times  Lycurgus  B, 
Did  lay  his  hands  not  lovingly 
Upon  his  wife,  the  sanctity 
Of  wedlock  was  his  guaranty. 

But  Mrs.  Jones  declined  to  see 
Affairs  in  the  same  light  as  he, 


206  a  MORAL  VINDICATOR. 


And  quietly  got  a  decree 
Divorcing  her  from  that  L.  B. 

And  what  did  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
With  his  known  idiosyncrasy  ? 
He  smiled,  —  a  bitter  smile  to  see,  — 
And  drew  the  weapon  of  Bowie. 

He  did  what  Sickles  did  to  Key,  — 
What  Cole  on  Hiscock  wrought,  did  he ; 
In  fact,  on  persons  twenty-three 
He  proved  the  marriage  sanctity. 

The  counsellor  who  took  the  fee, 
The  witnesses  and  referee, 
The  judge  who  granted  the  decree, 
Died  in  that  wholesale  butchery. 

And  then  when  Jones,  Lycurgus  B., 
Had  wiped  the  weapon  of  Bowie, 
Twelve  jurymen  did  instantl  y 
Acquit  and  set  Lycurgus  free. 


SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE. 


FOR  THE  PARLOR  AND  PIANO. 
I.  —  THE  PERSONIFIED  SENTIMENTAL. 

Affection's  charm  no  longer  gilds 

The  idol  of  the  shrine ; 
But  cold  Oblivion  seeks  to  fill 

Regret's  ambrosial  wine. 
Though  Friendship's  offering  buried  lies 

'Neath  cold  Aversion's  snow, 
Regard  and  Faith  will  ever  bloom 

Perpetually  below. 

I  see  thee  whirl  in  marble  halls, 

In  Pleasure's  giddy  train  ; 
Remorse  is  never  on  that  brow, 

Nor  Sorrow's  mark  of  pain. 
Deceit  has  marked  thee  for  her  own; 

Inconstancy  the  same  ; 
And  Ruin  wildly  sheds  its  gleam 

Athwart  thy  path  of  shame. 


SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE. 


II. —  THE  HOMELY  PATHETIC. 

The  dews  are  heavy  on  my  brow ; 

My  breath  comes  hard  and  low ; 
Yet,  mother,  dear,  grant  one  request, 

Before  your  boy  must  go. 
Oh !  lift  me  ere  my  spirit  sinks, 

And  ere  my  senses  fail  : 
Place  me  once  more,  O  mother  dear  ! 

Astride  the  old  fence-rail. 

The  old  fence-rail,  the  old  fence-rail ! 

How  oft  these  youthful  legs, 
With  Alice,  and  Ben  Bolt's,  were  hung 

Across  those  wooden  pegs. 
'T  was  there  the  nauseating  smoke 

Of  my  first  pipe  arose  : 

0  mother,  dear !  these  agonies 
Are  far  less  keen  than  those. 

1  know  where  lies  the  hazel  dell, 
Where  simple  Nellie  sleeps ; 

I  know  the  cot  of  Nettie  Moore, 
And  where  the  willow  weeps. 

I  know  the  brookside  and  the  mill : 
But  all  their  pathos  fails 

Beside  the  days  when  once  I  sat 
Astride  the  old  fence-rails. 


SONGS  WITHOUT  SENSE. 


209 


III.  SWISS  AIR. 

I'm  a  gay  tra,  la,  la, 
With  my  fal,  lal,  la,  la, 
And  my  bright  • — 
And  my  light  — 

Tra,  la,  le.  [Repeat.] 

Then  laugh,  ha,  ha,  ha, 
And  ring,  ting,  ling,  ling, 
And  sing  fal,  la,  la, 

La,  la,  le.  [Repeat.] 

14 


ECHOES  OF  THE  FOOT-HILLS. 


\ 


/ 


SPANISH  IDYLS. 


CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUELLO. 

PRESIDIO  DE  SAN  FRANCISCO. 
1800. 
I. 

Looking  seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills  stands  the  fortress, 

old  and  quaint, 
By  the  San  Francisco  friars  lifted  to  their  patron 

saint,  — 

Sponsor  to  that  wondrous  city,  now  apostate  to  the 
creed, 

On  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw  the  angel's 
golden  reed  ; 

All  its  trophies  long  since  scattered,  all  its  blazon 

brushed  away, 
And  the  flag  that  flies  above  it  but  a  triumph  of  to-day. 


214  CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUELLO. 

Never  scar  of  siege  or  battle  challenges  the  wandering 
eye,— 

Never  breach  of  warlike  onset  holds  the  curious  passer- 

by; 

Only  one  sweet  human  fancy  interweaves  its  threads  of 
gold 

With  the  plain  and  homespun  present,  and  a  love  that 
ne'er  grows  old ; 

Only  one  thing  holds  its  crumbling  walls  above  the 

meaner  dust,  — 
Listen  to  the  simple  story  of  a  woman's  love  and  trust 

ii. 

Count  von  Resanoff,  the  Russian,  envoy  of  the  mighty 
Czar, 

Stood  beside  the  deep  embrasures  where  the  brazen 
cannon  are. 

He  with  grave  provincial  magnates  long  had  held  serene 
debate 

On  the  Treaty  of  Alliance  and  the  high  affairs  of  state ; 

He,  from  grave  provincial  magnates,  oft  had  turned  to 
talk  apart 

With  the  Comandante's  daughter,  on  the  questions  of 
the  heart, 


CONCEPCION  BE  ARGUELLO.  215 

Until  points  of  gravest  import  yielded  slowly,  one  by 
one, 

And  by  Love  was  consummated  what  Diplomacy  begun ; 

Till  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen  can- 
non are, 

He  received  the  twofold  contract  for  approval  of  the 
Czar ; 

Till  beside  the  brazen  cannon  the  betrothed  bade  adieu, 
And,  from  sally-port  and  gateway,  north  the  Russian 
eagles  flew. 

Hi. 

Long  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where  the  brazen 
cannon  are, 

Did  they  wait  the  promised  bridegroom  and  the  answer 
of  the  Czar  ; 

Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the  hollow  empty 
breeze,  — 

Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the  vacant,  smiling 
seas  ; 

Week  by  week  the  near  hills  whitened  in  their  dusty 

leather  cloaks,  — 
Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened  from  the  fringing 

plain  of  oaks  ; 


216  CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUELLO. 


Till  the  rains  came,  and  far-breaking,  on  the  fierce 
southwester  tost, 

Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  color,  and  then  van- 
ished and  were  lost. 

So  each  year  the  seasons  shifted;  wet  and  warm  and 

drear  and  dry ; 
Half  a  year  of  clouds  and  flowers,  —  half  a  year  of  dust 

and  sky. 

Still  it  brought  no  ship  nor  message,  —  brought  no 

tidings  ill  nor  meet 
For  the  statesmanlike  Commander,  for  the  daughter  fair 

and  sweet. 

Yet  she  heard  the  varying  message,  voiceless  to  all  ears 
beside : 

"  He  will  come,"  the  flowers  whispered :  "  Come  no 
more,"  the  dry  hills  sighed. 

Still  she  found  him  with  the  waters  lifted  by  the  morn- 
ing breeze,  — 

Still  she  lost  him  with  the  folding  of  the  great  white- 
tented  seas  ; 

Until  hollows  chased  the  dimples  from  her  cheeks  of 
olive  brown, 


CONCEPCION  BE  ARGUELLO.  217 

And  at  times  a  swift,  shy  moisture  dragged  the  long 
sweet  lashes  down ; 

Or  the  small  mouth  curved  and  quivered  as  for  some 
denied  caress, 

And  the  fair  young  brow  was  knitted  in  an  infantine 
distress. 

Then  the  grim  Commander,  pacing  where  the  brazen 
cannon  are, 

Comforted  the  maid  with  proverbs,  —  wisdom  gathered 
from  afar ; 

Bits  of  ancient  observation  by  his  fathers  garnered, 
eacli 

As  a  pebble  worn  and  polished  in  the  current  of  his 
speech : 

" 1  Those  who  wait  the  coining  rider  travel  twice  as  far 
as  he ' ; 

i  Tired  wench  and  coming  butter  never  did  in  time 
agree/ 

" 6  He  that  getteth  himself  honey,  though  a  clown,  he 

shall  have  flies'; 
*  In  the  end  God  grinds  the  miller ' ;  '  In  the  dark  the 

mole  has  eyes.' 


218  CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUE LLO. 

u  i  He  whose  father  is  Alcalde,  of  his  trial  hath  no 
fear,'  — 

And  be  sure  the  Count  has  reasons  that  will  make  his 
conduct  clear." 

Then  the  voice  sententious  faltered,  and  the  wisdom  it 
would  teach 

Lost  itself  in  fondest  trifles  of  his  soft  Castilian  speech  ; 

And  on  "  Concha,"  "  Conchitita,"  and  u  Conchita  "  he 
would  dwell 

With  the  fond  reiteration  which  the  Spaniard  knows  so 
well. 

So  with  proverbs  and  caresses,  half  in  faith  and  half  in 
doubt, 

Every  day  some  hope  was  kindled,  nickered,  faded,  and 
went  out. 

IV. 

Yearly,  down  the  hillside  sweeping,  came  the  stately 
cavalcade, 

Bringing  revel  to  vaquero,  joy  and  comfort  to  each 
maid ; 

Bringing  days  of  formal  visit,  social  feast  and  rustic 
sport ; 

Of  bull-baiting  on  the  plaza,  of  love-making  in  the  court 


CONCEPCION  DE  ARGUELLO.  219 

Vainly  then  at  Concha's  lattice,  —  vainly  as  the  idle 
wind 

Rose  the  thin  high  Spanish  tenor  that  bespoke  the  youth 
too  kind  ; 

Vainly,  leaning  from  their  saddles,  caballeros,  bold  and 
fleet, 

Plucked  for  her  the  buried  chicken  from  beneath  their 
mustang's  feet ; 

So  in  vain  the  barren  hillsides  with  their  gay  serapes 
blazed, 

Blazed  and  vanished  in  the  dust-cloud  that  their  flying 
hoofs  had  raised. 

Then  the  drum  called  from  the  rampart,  and  once  more 

with  patient  mien 
The  Commander  and  his  daughter  each  took  up  the  dull 

routine,  — 

Each  took  up  the  petty  duties  of  a  life  apart  and  alone, 
Till  the  slow  years  wrought  a  music  in  its  dreary  mono- 
tone. 

v. 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  swept  the  hollow  idle 
breeze, 


220  CONCEPCION  BE  ARGUELLO. 

Since  the  Russian  eagle  fluttered  from  the  California 
seas. 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  wrought  its  slow  but 
sure  decay ; 

And  St.  George's  cross  was  lifted  in  the  port  of  Mon- 
terey. 

And  the  citadel  was  lighted,  and  the  hall  was  gayly 
drest, 

All  to  honor  Sir  George  Simpson,  famous  traveller  and 
guest. 

Par  and  near  the  people  gathered  to  the  costly  banquet 
set, 

And  exchanged  congratulation  with  the  English  baro- 
net ; 

Till  the  formal  speeches  ended,  and  amidst  the  laugh 
and  wine 

Some  one  spoke  of  Concha's  lover,  —  heedless  of  the 
warning  sign. 

Quickly  then  cried  Sir  George  Simpson  :  "  Speak  no  ill 

of  him,  I  pray. 
He  is  dead.    He  died,  poor  fellow,  forty  years  ago  this 

day. 


CONCEPCION  BE  ARGUELLO.  221 


*  Died  while  speeding  home  to  Russia,  falling  from  a 
fractious  horse. 

Left  a  sweetheart  too,  they  tell  me.  Married,  I  sup- 
pose, of  course  ! 

"Lives  she  yet?"   A  death-like  silence  fell  on  banquet, 

guests,  and  hall, 
And  a  trembling  figure  rising  fixed  the  awe-struck  gaze 

of  all. 

Two  black  eyes  in  darkened  orbits  gleamed  beneath  the 

nun's  white  hood  ; 
Black  serge  hid  the  wasted  figure,  bowed  and  stricken 

where  it  stood. 

"  Lives  she  yet  ? "  Sir  George  repeated.    All  were 

hushed  as  Concha  drew 
Closer  yet  her  nun's  attire.    "  Senor,  pardon,  she  died 

too !  " 


RAMON. 


REFUGIO  MINE,  NORTHERN  MEXICO. 

Drunk  and  senseless  in  his  place, 

Prone  and  sprawling  on  his  face, 
More  like  brute  than  any  man 
Alive  or  dead,  — 

By  his  great  pump  out  of  gear, 

Lay  the  peon  engineer, 

Waking  only  just  to  hear, 
Overhead, 

Angry  tones  that  called  his  name, 

Oaths  and  cries  of  bitter  blame  — 
Woke  to  hear  all  this,  and  waking,  turned  and  fled ! 

"  To  the  man  who  '11  bring  to  me/' 
Cried  Intendant  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine,  — - 
"  Bring  the  sot  alive  or  dead, 
I  will  give  to  him/'  he  said, 
"  Fifteen  hundred  pesos  down, 
Just  to  set  the  rascal's  crown 
Underneath  this  heel  of  mine  : 
Since  but  death 


RAMON. 


223 


Deserves  the  man  whose  deed, 
Be  it  vice  or  want  of  heed, 
Stops  the  pumps  that  give  us  breath,  — 
Stops  the  pumps  that  suck  the  death 
From  the  poisoned  lower  levels  of  the  mine  !  " 

No  one  answered,  for  a  cry 
From  the  shaft  rose  up  on  high ; 
And  shuffling,  scrambling,  tumbling  from  below, 
Came  the  miners  each,  the  bolder 
Mounting  on  the  weaker's  shoulder, 
Grappling,  clinging  to  their  hold  or 

Letting  go, 
As  the  weaker  gasped  and  fell 
From  the  ladder  to  the  well,  — 
To  the  poisoned  pit  of  hell 

Down  below  ! 


"  To  the  man  who  sets  them  free," 

Cried  the  foreman,  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine,  — 
"  Brings,  them  out  and  sets  them  free, 

I  will  give  that  man,"  said  he, 
"  Twice  that  sum,  who  with  a  rope 

Face  to  face  with  Death  shall  cope. 

Let  him  come  who  dares  to  hope  !  " 


224 


RAMON, 


"  Hold  your  peace ! 99  some  one  replied, 
Standing  by  the  foreman's  side  ; 
"  There  has  one  already  gone,  who'er  he  be  ! '* 

Then  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 

Pulling  on  the  rope,  and  saw 

Fainting  figures  reappear, 

On  the  black  rope  swinging  clear, 
Fastened  by  some  skilful  hand  from  below; 

Till  a  score  the  level  gained, 

And  but  one  alone  remained,  — 

He  the  hero  and  the  last, 

He  whose  skilful  hand  made  fast 
The  long  line  that  brought  them  back  to  hope  and  cheer ! 

Haggard,  gasping,  down  dropped  he 
At  the  feet  of  Harry  Lee,  — 
Harry  Lee,  the  English  foreman  of  the  mine ; 
"  I  have  come,"  he  gasped,  "  to  claim 
Both  rewards.    Senor,  my  name 

Is  Kamon  ! 
I 'm  the  drunken  engineer,  — 
I 'm  the  coward,  Senior  "  —  Here 
He  fell  over,  by  that  sign 

Dead  as  stone ! 


FOR  THE  KING. 


NORTHERN  MEXICO. 
1640. 

As  you  look  from  the  plaza  at  Leon,  west 

You  can  see  her  house,  but  the  view  is  best 

From  the  porch  of  the  church  where  she  lies  at  rest, 

Where  much  of  her  past  still  lives,  I  think, 
In  the  scowling  brows  and  sidelong  blink 
Of  the  worshipping  throng  that  rise  or  sink 

To  the  waxen  saints  that,  yellow  and  lank, 
Lean  out  of  their  niches,  rank  on  rank, 
With  a  bloodless  Saviour  on  either  flank  ; 

In  the  gouty  pillars,  whose  cracks  begin 
To  show  the  adobe  core  within,  — 
A  soul  of  earth  in  a  whitewashed  skin. 

And  I  think  that  the  moral  of  all,  you  '11  say, 
Is  the  sculptured  legend  that  moulds  away 
On  a  tomb  in  the  choir  :  "  Por  el  Rey." 
15 


226 


FOR  THE  KING. 


"  Por  el  Rey."    Well,  the  king  is  gone, 
Ages  ago,  and  the  Hapsburg  one 
Shot  —  but  the  rock  of  the  church  lives  on. 

"  Por  el  Rey,"    What  matters,  indeed, 
If  king  or  president  succeed 
To  a  country  haggard  with  sloth  and  greed, 

As  long  as  one  granary  is  fat, 

And  yonder  priest,  in  a  shovel  hat, 

Peeps  out  from  the  bin  like  a  sleek  brown  rat ! 

What  matters  ?    Naught,  if  it  serves  to  bring 
The  legend  nearer,  —  no  other  thing,  — 
We  '11  spare  the  moral,  "  Live  the  King  !  " 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  they  say, 
The  viceroy,  Marquis  of  Monte-Rey, 
Rode,  with  his  retinue,  that  way. 

Grave  as  befitted  Spain's  grandee, 
Grave  as  the  substitute  should  be 
Of  His  Most  Catholic  Majesty, 

Yet  from  his  black  plume's  curving  grace 
To  his  slim,  black  gauntlet's  smaller  space, 
Exquisite  as  a  piece  of  lace  ! 


FOR  THE  KING. 


227 


Two  hundred  years  ago  —  e'en  so  — 

The  marquis  stopped  where  the  lime-trees  blow, 

While  Leon's  seneschal  bent  him  low, 

And  begged  that  the  marquis  would  that  night  take 
His  humble  roof  for  the  royal  sake, 
And  then,  as  the  custom  demanded,  spake 

The  usual  wish  that  his  guest  would  hold 

The  house,  and  all  that  it  might  infold, 

As  his  —  with  the  bride  scarce  three  days  old. 

Be  sure  that  the  marquis,  in  his  place, 
Replied  to  all  with  the  measured  grace 
Of  chosen  speech  and  unmoved  face, 

Nor  raised  his  head  till  his  black  plume  swept 
The  hem  of  the  lady's  robe,  who  kept 
Her  place,  as  her  husband  backward  stept. 

And  then  (I  know  not  how  nor  why) 
A  subtle  flame  in  the  lady's  eye  — 
Unseen  by  the  courtiers  standing  by  — 

Burned  through  his  lace  and  titled  wreath, 
Burned  through  his  body's  jeweled  sheath, 
Till  it  touched  the  steel  of  the  man  beneath ! 


228 


FOR  THE  KING. 


(And  yet,  mayhap,  no  more  was  meant 
Than  to  point  a  well-worn  compliment, 
And  the  lady's  beauty,  her  worst  intent.) 

Howbeit,  the  marquis  bowed  again  : 
"  Who  rules  with  awe  well  serveth  Spain, 
But  best  whose  law  is  love  made  plain." 

Be  sure  that  night  no  pillow  prest 
The  seneschal,  but  with  the  rest 
Watched,  —  as  was  due  a  royal  guest,  — 

Watched  from  the  wall  till  he  saw  the  square 
Fill  with  the  moonlight,  white  and  bare,  — 
Watched  till  he  saw  two  shadows  fare 

Out  from  his  garden,  where  the  shade 
That  the  old  church-tower  and  belfry  made, 
Like  a  benedictory  hand  was  laid. 

Few  words  spoke  the  seneschal  as  he  turned 

To  his  nearest  sentry  :  "  These  monks  have  learned 

That  stolen  fruit  is  sweetly  earned. 

"  Myself  shall  punish  yon  acolyte 
Who  gathers  my  garden  grapes  by  night ; 
Meanwhile,  wait  thou  till  the  morning  light." 


FOR  THE  KING. 


Yet  not  till  the  sun  was  riding  high 

Did  the  sentry  meet  his  commander's  eye, 

Nor  then  —  till  the  viceroy  stood  by. 

To  the  lovers  of  grave  formalities 

No  greeting  was  ever  so  fine,  I  wis, 

As  this  host's  and  guest's  high  courtesies  ! 

The  seneschal  feared,  as  the  wind  was  west, 
A  blast  from  Morena  had  chilled  his  rest  ? 
The  viceroy  languidly  confest 

That  cares  of  state,  and  — he  dared  to  say  — 
Some  fears  that  the  king  could  not  repay 
The  thoughtful  zeal  of  his  host,  some  way 

Had  marred  his  rest.    Yet  he  trusted  much 
None  shared  his  wakefulness  !    Though  such 
Indeed  might  be  !    If  he  dared  to  touch 

A  theme  so  fine  —  the  bride,  perchance, 
Still  slept  ?    At  least,  they  missed  her  glance 
To  give  this  greeting  countenance. 

Be  sure  that  the  seneschal,  in  turn, 

Was  deeply  bowed  with  the  grave  concern 

Of  the  painful  news  his  guest  should  learn : 


230 


FOR  THE  KING. 


"  Last  night,  to  her  fathers  dying  bed 
By  a  priest  was  the  lady  summoned ; 
Nor  know  we  yet  how  well  she  sped, 

"  But  hope  for  the  best."    The  grave  viceroy 
(Though  grieved  his  visit  had  such  alloy) 
Must  still  wish  the  seneschal  great  joy 

Of  a  bride  so  true  to  her  filial  trust ! 
Yet  now  as  the  day  waxed  on,  they  must 
To  horse,  if  they 'd  'scape  the  noonday  dust. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  seneschal,  "  at  least, 
To  mend  the  news  of  this  funeral  priest, 
Myself  shall  ride  as  your  escort,  east." 

The  viceroy  bowed.    Then  turned  aside 
To  his  nearest  follower  :  "  With  me  ride  — 
You  and  Felipe  —  on  either  side. 

"  And  list !    Should  anything  me  befall, 
Mischance  of  ambush  or  musket-ball, 
Cleave  to  his  saddle  yon  seneschal ! 

"  No  more."    Then  gravely  in  accents  clear 
Took  formal  leave  of  his  late  good  cheer! 
Whiles  the  seneschal  whispered  a  musketeer, 


FOR  THE  KING. 


Carelessly  stroking  his  pommel  top, 
u  If  from  the  saddle  ye  see  me  drop, 
Riddle  me  quickly  yon  solemn  fop !  " 

So  these,  with  many  a  compliment, 
Each  on  his  one  dark  thought  intent, 
With  grave  politeness  onward  went, 

Riding  high,  and  in  sight  of  all, 
Viceroy,  escort,  and  seneschal, 
Under  the  shade  of  the  Almandral. 

Holding  their  secret,  hard  and  fast, 
Silent  and  grave,  they  ride  at  last 
Into  the  dusty  travelled  Past ; 

Even  like  this  they  passed  away 
Two  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 
What  of  the  lady  ?    Who  shall  say  ? 

Do  the  souls  of  the  dying  ever  yearn 

To  some  favored  spot  for  the  dust's  return 

For  the  homely  peace  of  the  family  urn  ? 

I  know  not.    Yet  did  the  seneschal, 
Chancing  in  after  years  to  fall 
Pierced  by  a  Flemish  musket-ball, 


FOR  THE  KING. 


Call  to  his  side  a  trusty  friar 

And  bid  him  swear,  as  his  last  desire, 

To  bear  his  corse  to  San  Pedro's  choir 

At  Leon,  where  'neath  a  shield  azure 
Should  his  mortal  frame  find  sepulture ; 
This  much,  for  the  pains  Christ  did  endure. 

Be  sure  that  the  friar  loyally 
Fulfilled  his  trust  by  land  and  sea, 
Till  the  spires  of  Leon  silently 

Rose  through  the  green  of  the  Almandral, 

As  if  to  beckon  the  seneschal 

To  his  kindred  dust  'neath  the  choir  wall. 

I  wot  that  the  saints  on  either  side 

Leaned  from  their  niches  open-eyed, 

To  see  the  doors  of  the  church  swing  wide* — 

That  the  wounds  of  the  Saviour  on  either  flank 
Bled  fresh,  as  the  mourners,  rank  by  rank, 
Went  by  with  the  coffin,  clank  on  clank, 

For  why  ?    When  they  raised  the  marble  door 
Of  the  tomb  untouched  for  years  before, 
The  friar  swooned  on  the  choir  floor ; 


FOR  THE  KING. 


233 


For  there,  in  her  laces  and  festal  dress, 
Lay  the  dead  man's  wife,  her  loveliness 
Scarcely  changed  by  her  long  duress ; 

As  on  the  night  she  had  passed  away  — 

Only  that  near  her  a  dagger  lay, 

With  the  written  legend,  "  Por  el  Rey." 

What  was  their  greeting  —  the  groom  and  bride, 
They  whom  that  steel  and  the  years  divide  ? 
I  know  not.    Here  they  lie  side  by  side. 

Side  by  side.    Though  the  king  has  his  way, 
Even  the  dead  at  last  have  their  day. 
Make  you  the  moral.    "  Por  el  Rey." 


DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


REFECTORY-MISSION  SAN  GABRIEL. 
1869. 

Good,  —  said  the  Padre,  —  believe  me  still, 

Don  Giovanni,  or  what  you  will,  — 

The  type 's  eternal !    We  knew  him  here 

As  Don  Diego  del  Sud.    I  fear 

The  story  's  no  new  one.    Will  you  hear  ? 

One  of  those  spirits  you  can't  tell  why 

God  has  permitted.    Therein  I 

Have  the  advantage,  for  I  hold 

That  wolves  are  sent  to  the  purest  fold. 

And  we  save  the  wolf,  if  we 'd  get  the  lamb. 

You  're  no  believer !    Good  !  I  am. 

Well,  for  some  purpose,  I  grant  you  dim, 
The  Don  loved  women,  and  they  loved  him. 
Each  thought  herself  his  last  love  !  Worse, 
Many  believed  that  they  were  his  first ! 
And  such  are  those  creatures,  since  the  Fall, 
The  very  doubt  had  a  charm  for  all ! 


DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH.  235 


You  laugh  !    You  are  young  —  but  I  —  indeed 
I  have  no  patience. 

To  proceed. 

You  saw  as  you  passed  through  the  upper  town 

The  Encinal,  where  the  road  goes  down 

To  San  Felipe.    There  one  morn 

They  found  Diego,  his  mantle  torn, 

And  as  many  stabs  through  his  doublet's  band 

As  there  were  wronged  husbands  —  you  understand  ? 

"  Dying,"  —  so  said  the  gossips.    "  Dead," 
Was  what  the  friars  who  found  him  said. 
Good  !     Quien  sabe  ?    Who  else  should  know  ?  — 
It  was  a  hundred  years  ago. 
There  was  a  funeral.    Small  indeed  — 
Private.    What  would  you  ? 

To  proceed. 

Scarcely  the  year  had  flown.    One  night 
The  commandante  awoke  in  fright,  — 
Hearing  below  his  casement's  bar 
The  well-known  twang  of  the  Don's  guitar  — 
And  rushed  to  the  window  —  just  to  see 
His  wife  a-swoon  on  the  balcony. 

One  week  later  Don  Juan  Ramirez 
Found  his  own  daughter,  the  Dona  Inez, 


DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH, 


Pale  as  a  ghost,  leaning  out  to  hear 
The  song  of  that  phantom  cavalier. 
Even  Alcalde  Pedro  Bias 
Saw,  it  was  said,  through  his  niece's  glass 
The  shade  of  Diego  twice  repass. 

What  the  gentlemen  each  confessed 
Heaven  and  the  Church  only  knows.    At  best 
The  case  was  a  bad  one.    How  to  deal 
With  Sin  as  a  ghost  they  could  n't  but  feel 
Was  an  awful  thing.    Till  a  certain  Fray 
Humbly  offered  to  show  the  way. 

And  the  way  was  this  :  Did  I  say  before 

That  the  Fray  was  a  stranger.    No,  —  Senor  ? 

Strange  !    Very  strange  !    I  should  have  said 

That  the  very  week  that  the  Don  lay  dead 

He  came  among  us  !    Bread  he  broke 

Silent ;  nor  ever  to  one  he  spoke. 

So  had  he  vowed  it.    Below  his  brows 

His  face  was  hidden.    There  are  such  vows. 

Strange,  are  they  not  ?    You  do  not  use 
Snuff  ?    A  bad  habit  ! 

Well,  the  views 
Of  the  Fray  were  this :  That  the  penance  done 
By  the  caballeros  was  right ;  but  one 


DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH.  237 

Was  due  from  the  cause,  and  that  in  brief, 

Was  Donna  Dolores  Gomez,  chief, 

And  Inez,  Sanchicha,  Concepcion, 

And  Carmen.    Well,  half  the  girls  in  town 

On  his  tablets  the  Friar  had  written  down. 

These  were  to  come  on  a  certain  day 
And  ask  at  the  hands  of  this  pious  Fray 
For  absolution.    That  done,  small  fear 
But  the  shade  of  Diego  would  disappear. 

They  came,  each  knelt  in  her  turn  and  place 
To  the  pious  Fray  with  his  hidden  face 
And  voiceless  lips,  and  each  again 
Took  back  her  soul  freed  from  spot  or  stain, 
Till  the  Dona  Inez,  with  eyes  downcast 
And  a  tear  on  their  fringes,  knelt  her  last. 

And  then  —  perhaps  that  her  voice  was  low 
From  fear  or  from  shame  —  the  monks  said  so  — 
But  the  Fray  leaned  forward,  when  swiftly  all 
Were  thrilled  by  a  scream,  and  saw  her  fall 
Fainting  beside  the  confessional. 

And  so  was  the  ghost  of  Diego  laid 
As  the  Fray  had  said.    No  more  his  shade 
Was  seen  at  San  Gabriel's  Mission.    Eh  ? 
The  girl  interests  you  ?    I  dare  say  ! 


238  DON  DIEGO  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


Nothing,"  she  said,  when  they  brought  her  to, 
Nothing,  —  a  faintness."    They  spake  more  true 
Who  said 't  was  a  stubborn  soul.    But  then 
Women  are  women,  and  men  are  men. 

So  to  return.    As  I  said  before, 
Having  got  the  wolf,  by  the  same  high  law 
We  saved  the  lamb  in  the  wolfs  own  jaw ; 
And  that 's  my  story.    The  tale,  I  fear, 
But  poorly  told.    Yet,  it  strikes  me,  here 
Is  stuff  for  a  moral.    What 's  your  view  ? 
You  smile,  Don  Pancho,  ah !  that 's  like  you ! 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE. 


It  was  the  morning  season  of  the  year ; 

It  was  the  morning  era  of  the  land ; 
The  watercourses  rang  full  loud  and  clear  ; 

Portala's  cross  stood  where  Portala's  hand 
Had  planted  it  when  Faith  was  taught  by  Fear  ; 

When  Monks  and  Missions  held  the  sole  command 
Of  all  that  shore  beside  the  peaceful  sea 
Where  spring-tides  beat  their  long-drawn  reveille. 

Out  of  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey, 

All  in  that  brisk,  tumultuous  spring  weather, 

Rode  Friar  Pedro,  in  a  pious  way, 

With  six  dragoons  in  cuirasses  of  leather, 

Each  armed  alike  for  either  prayer  or  fray, 

Handcuffs  and  missals  they  had  slung  together ; 

And  as  an  aid  the  gospel  truth  to  scatter 

Each  swung  a  lasso  —  alias  a  "  riata." 

In  sooth,  that  year  the  harvest  had  been  slack, 
The  crop  of  converts  scarce  worth  computation ; 

Some  souls  were  lost,  whose  owners  had  turned  back 
To  save  their  bodies  frequent  flagellation, 


240 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE. 


And  some  preferred  the  songs  of  birds,  alack, 
To  Latin  matins  and  their  soul's  salvation, 
And  thought  their  own  wild  whoopings  were  less 
Than  Father  Pedro's  droning  miserere. 

To  bring  them  back  to  matins  and  to  prime, 
To  pious  works  and  secular  submission, 

To  prove  to  them  that  liberty  was  crime, 

This  was  in  fact  the  Padre's  present  mission ; 

To  get  new  souls  perchance  at  the  same  time 
And  bring  them  to  a  "  sense  of  their  condition  " 

That  easy  phrase  which,  in  the  past  and  present, 

Means  making  that  condition  most  unpleasant. 

He  saw  the  glebe  land  guiltless  of  a  furrow  ; 

He  saw  the  wild  oats  wrestle  on  the  hill  ; 
He  saw  the  gopher  working  in  his  burrow  ; 

He  saw  the  squirrel  scampering  at  his  will  ; 
He  saw  all  this,  and  felt  no  doubt  a  thorough 

And  deep  conviction  of  God's  goodness  ;  still 
He  failed  to  see  that  in  His  glory  He 
Yet  left  the  humblest  of  His  creatures  free. 

He  saw  the  flapping  crow,  whose  frequent  note 
Voiced  the  monotony  of  land  and  sky, 

Mocking  with  graceless  wing  and  rusty  coat 
His  priestly  presence  as  he  trotted  by. 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE. 


241 


He  would  have  cursed  the  bird  by  bell  and  rote, 

But  other  game  just  then  was  in  his  eye  — 
A  savage  camp,  whose  occupants  preferred 
Their  heathen  darkness  to  the  living  Word. 

He  rang  his  bell,  and  at  the  martial  sound 

Twelve  silver  spurs  their  jingling  rowels  clashed  ; 

Six  horses  sprang  across  the  level  ground 
As  six  dragoons  in  open  order  dashed ; 

Above  their  heads  the  lassos  circled  round ; 
In  every  eye  a  pious  fervor  flashed  ; 

They  charged  the  camp,  and  in  one  moment  more 

They  lassoed  six  and  reconverted  four. 

The  Friar  saw  the  conflict  from  a  knoll, 

And  sang  Laus  Deo,  and  cheered  on  his  men : 

"  Well  thrown,  Bautista,  —  that 's  another  soul ! 
After  him,  Gomez,  —  try  it  once  again  ; 

This  way,  Felipe  !  there  the  heathen  stole ; 

Bones  of  St.  Francis  !  —  surely  that  makes  ten  ; 

Te  deum  laudamns,  —  but  they  're  very  wild  ; 

Non  nobis  dominus,  —  all  right,  my  child." 

When  at  that  moment  —  as  the  story  goes  — 
A  certain  squaw,  who  had  her  foes  eluded, 
Ran  past  the  Friar,  —  just  before  his  nose. 
He  stared  a  moment,  and  in  silence  brooded, 
16 


242 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE* 


Then  in  his  breast  a  pious  frenzy  rose 

And  every  other  prudent  thought  excluded ; 
He  caught  a  lasso,  and  dashed  in  a  canter 
After  that  Occidental  Atalanta. 

High  o'er  his  head  he  swirled  the  dreadful  noose, 
But  as  the  practice  was  quite  unfamiliar, 

His  first  cast  tore  Felipe's  captive  loose, 
And  almost  choked  Tiburcio  Camilla, 

And  might  have  interfered  with  that  brave  youth's 
Ability  to  gorge  the  tough  tortilla  ; 

But  all  things  come  by  practice,  and  at  last 

His  flying  slip-knot  caught  the  maiden  fast. 

Then  rose  above  the  plain  a  mingled  yell 
Of  rage  and  triumph,  —  a  demoniac  whoop  : 

The  Padre  heard  it  like  a  passing  knell, 

And  would  have  loosened  his  unchristian  loop  ; 

But  the  tough  raw-hide  held  the  captive  well, 
And  held,  alas,  too  well  the  captor-dupe ; 

For  with  one  bound  the  savage  fled  amain, 

Dragging  horse,  friar,  down  the  lonely  plain. 

Down  the  arroyo,  out  across  the  mead, 

By  heath  and  hollow,  sped  the  flying  maid, 

Dragging  behind  her  still  the  panting  steed 
And  helpless  friar,  who  in  vain  essayed 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE. 


To  cut  the  lasso  or  to  check  his  speed. 

He  felt  himself  beyond  all  human  aid, 
And  trusted  to  the  saints,  —  and  for  that  matter 

To  some  weak  spot  in  Felipe's  riata. 

Alas  !  the  lasso  had  been  duly  blessed, 
And,  like  baptism,  held  the  Hying  wretch. 

A  doctrine  that  the  priest  had  oft  expressed,  — 
Which,  like  the  lasso,  might  be  made  to  stretch 

But  would  not  break,  —  so  neither  could  divest 
Themselves  of  it,  but  like  some  awful  fetch, 

The  holy  friar  had  to  recognize 

His  fate  prophetic  in  that  heathen  guise. 

He  saw  the  glebe  land  guiltless  of  a  furrow ; 

He  saw  the  wild  oats  wrestle  on  the  hill ; 
Pie  saw  the  gopher  standing  in  his  burrow  ; 

He  saw  the  squirrel  scampering  at  his  will ; 
He  saw  all  this,  and  felt  no  doubt  how  thorough 

The  contrast  was  to  his  condition ;  still 
The  squaw  kept  onward  to  the  sea,  till  night 
And  the  cold  sea-fog  hid  them  both  from  sight. 

The  morning  came  above  the  serried  coast, 
Lighting  the  snow-peaks  with  its  beacon-fires, 

Driving  before  it  all  the  fleet-winged  host 
Of  chattering  birds  above  the  Mission  spires, 


244  FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE. 


Filling  the  land  with  light  and  joy,  — but  most 
The  savage  woods  with  all  their  leafy  lynes ; 
In  pearly  tints,  and  opal  flame  and  fire 
The  morning  came,  —  but  not  the  holy  Friar. 

Weeks  passed  away.    In  vain  the  Fathers  sought 
Some  trace  or  token  that  might  tell  his  story. 

Some  thought  him  dead,  or  like  Elijah  caught 
Up  to  the  heavens  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 

In  this  surmise,  some  miracles  were  wrought 
On  his  account,  and  souls  in  purgatory 

Were  thought  to  profit  from  his  intercession  — 

In  brief,  his  absence  made  a  "  deep  impression." 

A  twelvemonth  passed  ;  the  welcome  spring  once  more 
Made  green  the  hills  beside  the  white-faced  Mission, 

Spread  her  bright  dais  by  the  western  shore, 

And  sat  enthroned,  —  a  most  resplendent  vision. 

The  heathen  converts  thronged  the  chapel-door 
At  morning  mass  ;  when,  says  the  old  tradition, 

A  frightful  whoop  throughout  the  church  resounded, 

And  to  their  feet  the  congregation  bounded. 

A  tramp  of  hoofs  upon  the  beaten  course  — 

Then  came  a  sight  that  made  the  bravest  quail : 

A  phantom  friar,  on  a  spectre  horse, 

Dragged  by  a  creature  decked  with  horns  and  tail. 


FRIAR  PEDRO'S  RIDE.  245 

By  the  lone  Mission,  with  the  whirlwind's  force, 

They  madly  swept,  and  left  a  sulphurous  trail  — 
And  that  was  all  —  enough  to  tell  the  story 
And  leave  unblessed  those  souls  in  purgatory. 

And  ever  after,  on  that  fatal  day 

That  Friar  Pedro  rode  abroad  lassoing, 

A  ghostly  couple  came  and  went  away 

With  savage  whoop  and  heathenish  hallooing, 

Which  brought  discredit  on  San  Luis  Rey, 
And  proved  the  Mission's  ruin  and  undoing ; 

For  ere  ten  years  had  passed,  the  squaw  and  Friar 

Performed  to  empty  walls  and  fallen  spire. 

The  Mission  is  no  more  ;  upon  its  walls 
The  golden  lizards  slip,  or  breathless  pause 

Still  as  the  sunshine  brokenly  that  falls 

Through  crannied  roof  and  spider-webs  of  gauze ; 

No  more  the  bell  its  solemn  warning  calls, — 
A  holier  silence  thrills  and  overawes  ; 

And  the  sharp  lights  and  shadows  of  To-Day 

Outline  the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Rey. 


AT  THE  HACIENDA. 


Know  I  not  whom  thou  mayst  be 
Carved  upon  this  olive-tree,  — 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre," 
For,  around  on  broken  walls 
Summer  sun  and  Spring  rain  falls, 
And  in  vain  the  low  wind  calls 

"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 

Of  that  song  no  words  remain 

But  the  musical  refrain  : 
"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 
Yet  at  night,  when  winds  are  still, 
Tinkles  on  the  distant  hill 
A  guitar,  and  words  that  thrill 

Tell  to  me  the  old,  old  story,  — 
Old  when  first  thy  charms  were  sung,  » 
Old  when  these  old  walls  were  young, 
"  Manuela  of  La  Torre." 


IN  DIALECT. 


LUKE. 

IN  THE   COLORADO  PARK. 
1873. 

Wot's  that  you're  readin' ? —  a  novel?    A  novel, — 

well,  dern  my  skin  ! 
You  a  man  grown  and  bearded  and  histin'  such  stuff  ez 

that  in,  — 

Stuff  about  gals  and  their  sweethearts  !    No  wonder 

you  're  thin  ez  a  knife. 
Look  at  me  !  —  clar  two  hundred,  —  and  never  read  one 

in  my  life  ! 

That 's  my  opinion  o'  novels.    And  ez  to  their  lyin' 
round  here, 

They  belonged  to  the  Jedge's  daughter,  —  the  Jedge 

who  came  up  last  year 
On  account  of  his  lungs  and  the  mountains  and  the 

balsam  o'  pine  and  fir ; 
And  his  daughter,  —  well,  she  read  novels,  and  that 's 

what 's  the  matter  with  her. 


248 


LUKE. 


Yet  she  allers  was  sweet  on  the  Jedge,  and  she  stuck  by 

him  day  and  night, 
Alone  in  the  cabin  up  yer,  —  till  she  grew  like  a  ghost, 

all  white. 

She  wus  only  a  slip  of  a  thing,  ez  light  and  ez  up  and 

away 

Ez  rifle-smoke  blown  through  the  woods,  but  she  was  n't 
my  kind,  —  no  way  ! 

Speaking  o'  gals,  d'  ye  mind  that  house  ez  you  rise  the 
hill, 

A  mile  and  a  half  from  White's,  and  jist  above  Mat- 
tingly's  mill  ? 

You  do  ?   Well  now  thar 's  a  gal !   What,  you  saw  her  ? 

Oh,  come  now,  thar,  quit  ! 
She  was  only  bedevlin'  you  boys,  for  to  me  she  don't 

cotton  one  bit. 

Now  she 's  what  I  call  a  gal,  —  ez  pretty  and  plump  ez 
a  quail ; 

Teeth  ez  white  ez  a  hound's  and  they'd  go  through  a 

ten  penny  nail ; 
Eyes  that  kin  snap  like  a  cap.    So  she  asked  to  know 

"  whar  I  was  hid." 
She  did  !    Oh,  it 's  jist  like  her  sass,  for  she 's  peart  ez 

a  Katy-did. 


LUKE, 


249 


But  what  was  I  talking  of  ?  —  Oh,  the  Jedge  and  his 

daughter,  —  she  read 
Novels  the  whole  day  long,  and  I  reckon  she  read  them 

abed, 

And  sometimes  she  read  them  out  loud  to  the  Jedge  on 

the  porch  where  he  sat, 
And 't  was  how  "  Lord  Augustus  "  said  this,  and  how 

"  Lady  Blanche  "  she  said  that. 

But  the  sickest  of  all  that  I  heerd,  was  a  yarn  thet  they 

read  'bout  a  chap, 
"  Leather-stocking  "  by  name,  and  a  hunter  chock  full 

o'  the  greenest  o'  sap  ; 
And  they  asked  me  to  hear,  but  I  says,  "  Miss  Mabel, 

not  any  for  me  ; 
When  I  likes  I  kin  sling  my  own  lies,  and  thet  chap  and 

I  should  n't  agree." 

Yet  somehow  or  other  she  was  always  sayin'  I  brought 
her  to  mind 

Of  folks  about  whom  she  had  read,  or  suthin  belike  of 
thet  kind, 

And  thar  warn't  no  end  o'  the  names  that  she  odve  me 

o 

thet  summer  up  here, 
"  Robin  Hood,"  "  Leather-stocking,"  "  Rob  Roy,"  — Oh, 
I  tell  you,  the  critter  was  queer. 


250 


LUKE. 


And  yet  ef  she  had  n't  been  spiled,  she  was  harmless 

enough  in  her  way. 
She  could  jabber  in  French  to  her  dad,  and  they  said 

that  she  knew  how  to  play, 
And  she  worked  me  that  shot-pouch  up  thar,  —  which 

the  man  does  n't  live  ez  kin  use, 
And  slippers  —  you  see  'em  down  yer  —  ez  would  cradle 

an  Injin's  pappoose. 

Yet  along  o'  them  novels,  you  see  she  was  wastin'  and 
mopin'  away, 

And  then  she  got  shy  with  her  tongue,  and  at  last  she 

had  nothin'  to  say ; 
And  whenever  I  happened  around,  her  face  it  was  hid 

by  a  book, 

And  it  was  n't  until  she  left  that  she  give  me  ez  much 
ez  a  look. 

And  this  was  the  way  it  was.  It  was  night  when  I  kem 
up  here 

To  say  to  'em  all  "  good  by,"  for  I  reckoned  to  go  for 
deer 

At  "  sun  up  "  the  day  they  left.  So  I  shook  'em  all 
round  by  the  hand, 

'Cept  Mabel,  and  she  was  sick,  ez  they  give  me  to  un- 
derstand. 


LUKE.  251 

But  jist  ez  I  passed  the  house  next  morning  at  dawn, 
some  one, 

Like  a  little  waver  o'  mist,  got  up  on  the  hill  with  the 
sun ; 

Miss  Mabel  it  was,  all  alone,  —  wrapped  up  in  a  mantle 
o'  lace,  — - 

And  she  stood  there  straight  in  the  road,  with  a  touch  o* 
the  sun  in  her  face. 

And  she  looked  me  right  in  the  eye,  —  I 'd  seen  suthin 
like  it  before 

When  I  hunted  a  wounded  doe  to  the  edge  o'  the  Clear 
Lake  shore, 

And  I  had  my  knee  on  its  neck,  and  jist  was  a  raisin' 
my  knife 

When  it  give  me  a  look  like  that,  and  —  well,  it  got  off 
with  its  life. 

"  We  are  going  to-day,"  she  said,  "  and  I  thought  I 

would  say  good-by 
To  you  in  your  own  house,  Luke,  —  these  woods,  and 

the  bright  blue  sky  ! 
You 've  always  been  kind  to  us,  Luke,  and  papa  has 

found  you  still 
As  good  as  the  air  he  breathes,  and  wholesome  as  Laurel 

Tree  Hill. 


252 


LUKE. 


"  And  we  '11  always  think  of  you,  Luke,  as  the  thing  we 

could  not  take  away  ; 
The  balsam  that  dwells  in  the  woods,  the  rainbow  that 

lives  in  the  spray. 
And  you  '11  sometimes  think  of  me,  Luke,  as  you  know 

you  once  used  to  say, 
A  rifle-smoke  blown  through  the  woods,  a  moment,  but 

never  to  stay." 

And  then  we  shook  hands.    She  turned,  but  a-suddent 

she  tottered  and  fell, 
And  I  caught  her  sharp  by  the  waist,  and  held  her  a 

minit,  —  well, 

It  was  only  a  minit,  you  know,  that  ez  cold  and  ez  white 
she  lay 

Ez  a  snow-flake  here  on  my  breast,  and  then  —  well,  she 
melted  away  — 

And  was  gone  ....  And  thar  are  her  books ;  but  I 

says  not  any  for  me, 
Good  enough  may  be  for  some,  but  them  and  I  might  n't 

agree. 

They  spiled  a  decent  gal  ez  might  hev  made  some  chap 
a  wife, 

And  look  at  me  !  —  clar  two  hundred,  —  and  never  read 
one  in  my  life  ! 


TKUTHFUL  JAMES  TO  THE  EDITOR. 


IN  THE  MODOC  WAR. 
1873. 

Which  it  is  not  my  style 

To  produce  needless  pain 
By  statements  that  rile, 
Or  that  go  'gin  the  grain, 
But  here 's  Captain  Jack  still  a  livin',  and  Nye  has  no 
skelp  on  his  brain  ! 

On  that  Caucasian  head 

There  is  no  crown  of  hair. 
It  has  gone,  it  has  fled  ! 
And  Echo  sez  "  where  ?  " 
And  I  asks,  "  Is  this  Nation  a  White  Man's,  and  is  gen- 
erally things  on  the  square  ?  " 

She  was  known  in  the  camp 
As  "  Nye's  other  squaw," 
And  folks  of  that  stamp 
Hez  no  rights  in  the  Law, 
But  is  treacherous,  sinful,  and  slimy,  as  Nye  might  hev 
well  known  before. 


254      TRUTHFUL  JAMES  TO  THE  EDITOR. 


But  she  said  that  she  knew 

Where  the  Injins  was  hid, 
And  the  statement  was  true, 
For  it  seemed  that  she  did ; 
Since  she  led  William  where  he  was  covered  by  seven- 
teen Modocs,  and  —  slid  ! 

Then  they  reached  for  his  hair ; 

But  Nye  sez,  "  By  the  Law 
Of  Nations,  forbear ! 

I  surrenders,  —  no  more  : 
And  I  looks  to  be  treated,  you  hear  me  ?  —  as  a  pris'ner, 
a  pris'ner  of  war  ! " 

But  Captain  Jack  rose 

And  he  sez  "  It 's  too  thin. 
Such  statements  as  those 
It  's  too  late  to  begin. 
There 's  a  Modoc  indictment  agin  you,  0  Paleface,  and 
you  're  goin'  in  ! 

"  You  stole  Schonchin's  squaw 
In  the  year  'sixty-two  ; 
It  was  in  'sixty-four 

That  Long  Jack  you  went  through, 
And  you  burned  Nasty  Jim's  rancheria  and  his  wives 
and  his  pappooses  too. 


TRUTHFUL  JAMES  TO  THE  EDITOR.  255 


"  This  gun  in  my  hand 

Was  sold  me  by  you 
'Gainst  the  law  of  the  land, 
And  I  grieves  it  is  true ! " 
And  he  buried  his  face  in  his  blanket  and  wept  as  he  hid 
it  from  view. 

"  But  you  're  tried  and  condemned, 
And  skelping  's  your  doom," 
And  he  paused  and  he  hemmed,  — 
But  why  this  resume  ? 
He  was  skelped  'gainst  the  custom  of  Nations,  and  cut 
off  like  a  rose  in  its  bloom. ' 

So  I  asks  without  guile, 

And  T  trusts  not  in  vain, 
If  this  is  the  style 

That  is  going  to  obtain,  — 
If  here 's  Captain  Jack  still  a-livin',  and  Nye  with  no 
skelp  on  his  brain  ? 


"  THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOODS.'' 


BIG  PINE  FLAT. 
1871. 

"  Something  characteristic,"  eh! 

Humph  !  I  reckon  you  mean  by  that 
Something  that  happened  in  our  way. 

Here  at  the  crossin'  of  Big  Pine  Flat. 
Times  are  n't  now  as  they  used  to  be 

When  gold  was  flush  and  the  boys  were  frisky, 
And  a  man  would  pull  out  his  battery 

For  anything,  —  may  be  the  price  of  whiskey. 

Nothing  of  that  sort ;  eh  !    That 's  strange, 

Why,  I  thought  you  might  be  diverted, 
Hearing  how  Jones  of  the  Red  Rock  Range, 

Drawecl  his  "  Hints  to  the  Unconverted," 
And  saying,  "  Where  will  you  have  it  ?  "  shot 

Cherokee  Bob  at  the  last  Debating  ! 
What  was  the  question  ?    I  forgot,  — 

But  Jones  did  n't  like  Bob's  way  of  stating. 

Nothing  of  that  kind,  eh  !    You  mean 

Something  milder  ?    Let 's  see.    Oh,  Joe ! 


THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOODS.  257 


Tell  to  the  stranger  that  little  scene 

Out  of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Woods."    You  know 
"  Babes  "  was  the  name  we  gave  'em,  sir, 

Two  lean  lads  in  their  teens,  and  greener 
Than  even  the  belt  of  spruce  and  fir 

Where  they  built  their  nest,  and  each  day  grew  leaner. 

No  one  knew  where  they  came  from.  None 

Cared  to  know  if  they  had  a  mother. 
Runaway  school-boys,  may  be.  One 

Tall  and  dark  as  a  spruce ;  the  other 
Blue  and  gold  in  the  eyes  and  hair, 

Soft  and  low  in  his  speech,  but  rarely 
Talking  with  us  ;  and  we  did  n't  care 

To  get  at  their  secret  at  all  unfairly. 

For  they  were  so  quiet,  so  sad  and  shy, 

Content  to  trust  each  other  solely, 
That  somehow  we 'd  always  shut  one  eye 

And  never  seem  to  observe  them  wholly 
As  they  passed  to  their  work.    'T  was  a  wornout  claim 

And  it  paid  them  grub.    They  could  live  without  it, 
For  the  boys  had  a  way  of  leaving  game 

In  their  tents,  and  forgetting  all  about  it. 

Yet  no  one  asked  for  their  secret.  Dumb 
It  lay  in  their  big  eyes'  heavy  hollows. 
17 


258 


THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOODS. 


It  was  understood  that  no  one  should  come 

To  their  tent  unawares,  save  the  bees  and  the  swallows. 

So  they  lived  alone.    Until  one  warm  night 
I  was  sitting  here  at  the  tent-door  so,  sir, 

When  out  of  the  sunset's  rosy  light 
Up  rode  the  sheriff  of  Mariposa. 

I  knew  at  once  there  was  something  wrong, 

For  his  hand  and  his  voice  shook  just  a  little, 
And  there  is  n't  much  you  can  fetch  along 

To  make  the  sinews  of  Jack  Hill  brittle. 
"  Go  warn  the  Babes  ! "  he  whispered  hoarse  ; 

"  Tell  them  I  'm  coming,  —  to  get  and  scurry, 
For  I  've  got  a  story  that 's  bad,  and  worse, 

I  've  got  a  warrant ;  G — d  d — n  it,  hurry." 

Too  late  !  they  had  seen  him  cross  the  hill ; 

I  ran  to  their  tent  and  found  them  lying 
Dead  in  each  other's  arms,  and  still 

Clasping  the  drug  they  had  taken  flying. 
And  there  lay  their  secret,  cold  and  bare, 

Their  life,  their  trial,  the  old,  old  story  ! 
For  the  sweet  blue  eyes  and  the  golden  hair, 

Was  a  woman's  shame  and  a  woman's  glory. 

"  Who  were  they  ?  "    Ask  no  more,  or  ask 
The  sun  that  visits  their  grave  so  lightly ; 


THE  BABES  IN  THE  WOODS. 


259 


Ask  of  the  whispering  reeds,  or  task 

The  mourning  crickets  that  chirrup  nightly. 

All  of  their  life  but  its  love  forgot, 

Everything  tender  and  soft  and  mystic. 

These  are  our  "  Babes  in  the  Woods  ; "  you  Ve  got, 
Well  —  human  nature  !  —  that 's  characteristic. 


AFTER  THE  ACCIDENT. 


MOUTH  OF  THE  SHAFT. 

What  I  want  is  my  husband,  sir,  — 
And  if  you  're  a  man,  sir, 

You  '11  give  me  an  answer,  — 
Where  is  my  Joe  ? 

Penrhyn,  sir,  Joe, — 

Caernovanshire. 
Six  months  ago 

Since  we  came  here  — 
Eh  ?  —  Ah,  you  know  ! 

Well,  I  am  quiet 

And  still. 
But  I  must  stand  here, 

And  will ! 
Please  —  1 11  be  strong  — 

If  you  '11  just  let  me  wait 

Inside  o'  that  gate 
Till  the  news  comes  along. 


AFTER  THE  ACCIDENT. 

"  Negligence  "  — 
That  was  the  cause  ;  — 

Butchery !  — 
Are  there  no  laws,  — 

Laws  to  protect  such  as  we  ? 

Well,  then  !  — 

I  won't  raise  my  voice. 
There  men  ! 

I  won't  make  no  noise. 
Only  you  just  let  me  be. 

Four,  only  four  —  did  he  say  — 
Saved  !  and  the  other  ones  ?  —  Eh  ? 

Why  do  they  call  ? 

Why  are  they  all 
Looking  and  coming  this  way  ! 

What 's  that  ?  —  a  message  ? 

I  '11  take  it. 
I  know  his  wife,  sir, 

I  '11  break  it. 


"  Foreman ! " 

Ay,  ay ! 
"  Out  by  and  by,"  — 
"  Just  saved  his  life." 


262 


AFTER  THE  ACCIDENT. 


"  Say  to  his  wife 

Soon  he  '11  be  free," 
Will  I  ?  —  God  bless  you, 
It 's  me  f 


THE  GHOST  THAT  JIM  SAW. 


Why,  as  to  that,  said  the  engineer, 
Ghosts  ain't  things  we  are  apt  to  fear, 
Spirits  don't  fool  with  levers  much, 
And  throttle-valves  don't  take  to  such ; 

And  as  for  Jim,  — 

What  happened  to  him 
Was  one  half  fact  and  t'  other  half  whim  ! 

Running  one  night  on  the  line,  he  saw 
A  house  —  as  plain  as  the  moral  law  — 
Just  by  the  moonlit  bank,  and  thence 
Came  a  drunken  man  with  no  more  sense 

Than  to  drop  on  the  rail, 

Flat  as  a  flail, 
As  Jim  drove  by  with  the  midnight  mail. 

Down  went  the  patents.    Steam  reversed, 
Too  late  !  for  there  came  a  "  thud."    Jim  cursed, 
As  the  fireman,  there  in  the  cab  with  him, 
Kinder  stared  in  the  face  of  Jim, 

And  says,  "  What  now  ?" 

Says  Jim,  "  What  now  ! 
I  Ve  just  run  over  a  man,  —  that 's  how  !  " 


264  THE  GHOST  THAT  JIM  SAW. 


The  fireman  stared  at  Jim.    They  ran 

Back,  but  they  never  found  house  nor  man, — 

Nary  a  shadow  within  a  mile. 

Jim  turned  pale,  but  he  tried  to  smile, 

Then  on  he  tore, 

Ten  mile  or  more, 
In  quicker  time  than  he 'd  made  afore. 

Would  you  believe  it !  the  very  next  night 
Up  rose  that  house  in  the  moonlight  white, 
Out  comes  the  chap  and  drops  as  before, 
Down  goes  the  brake  and  the  rest  encore, 

And  so,  in  fact, 

Each  night  that  act 
Occurred,  till  folks  swore  Jim  was  cracked. 

Humph  !  let  me  see  ;  it 's  a  year  now,  'most, 

That  I  met  Jim,  East,  and  says,  "  How 's  your  ghost  ?  " 

"  Gone,"  said  Jim  ;  "  and  more,  it 's  plain 

That  ghost  don't  trouble  me  again. 

I  thought  I  shook 

That  ghost  when  I  took 
A  place  on  an  Eastern  line,  —  but  look ! 

"  What  should  I  meet,  the  first  trip  out, 

But  the  very  house  we  talked  about, 

And  the  self-same  man  !    '  Well,'  says  I,  4 1  guess 

It 's  time  to  stop  this  yer  foolishness  ; ' 


THE  GHOST  THAT  JIM  SAW. 


So  I  crammed  on  steam, 
When  there  came  a  scream 
From  my  fireman,  —  that  jest  broke  my  dream. 

"  '  You  've  killed  somebody  ! '    Says  I,  *  Not  much, 
I  Ve  been  thar  often,  and  thar  ain't  no  such. 
And  now  I  '11  prove  it ! '    Back  we  ran, 
And,  —  darn  my  skin  !  —  but  thar  was  a  man 

On  the  rail,  dead, 

Smashed  in  the  head,  — 
Now  I  call  that  meanness !  "    That 's  all  Jim  said. 


THE  IDYL  OF  BATTLE  HOLLOW. 


WAR  OF  THE  REBELLION. 
1864. 

No,  I  won't,  —  thar,  now,  so  !    And  it  ain't  nothin',  — 
no ! 

And  thar 's  nary  to  tell  that  you  folks  yer  don't  know ; 
And  it 's  "  Belle,  tell  us,  do !  "  and  it 's  "  Belle,  is  it 
true  ?  " 

And  "  Wot 's  this  yer  yarn  of  the  Major  and  you  ?  " 
Till  I 'm  sick  of  it  all,  —  so  I  am,  but  I  s'pose 

Thet  is  nothin'  to  you  Wrell  then,  listen  !  yer 

goes : 

It  was  after  the  fight,  and  around  us  all  night 
Thar  was  poppin'  and  shootin'  a  powerful  sight ; 
And  the  niggers  had  fled,  and  Aunt  Chlo'  was  abed, 
And  Pinky  and  Milly  were  hid  in  the  shed  ; 
And  I  ran  out  at  daybreak  and  nothin'  was  nigh 
But  the  growlin'  of  cannon  low  down  in  the  sky. 

And  I  saw  not  a  thing  as  I  ran  to  the  spring, 

But  a  splintered  fence-rail  and  a  broken-down  swing, 


THE  IDYL  OF  BATTLE  HOLLOW.  267 


And  a  bird  said  "  Kerchee  !  "  as  it  sat  on  a  tree, 
As  if  it  was  lonesome  and  glad  to  see  me  ; 
And  I  filled  up  my  pail  and  was  risin'  to  go, 
When  up  comes  the  Major  a  canterin'  slow. 

When  he  saw  me  he  drew  in  his  reins,  and  then  threw 
On  the  gate-post  his  bridle,  and  —  what  does  he  do 
But  come  down  where  I  sat ;  and  he  lifted  his  hat, 
And  he  says  —  well,  thar  ain't  any  need  to  tell  that  — 
JT  was  some  foolishness,  sure,  but  it  'mounted  to  this, 
Thet  he  asked  for  a  drink,  and  he  wanted  —  a  kiss. 

Then  I  said  (I  was  mad),  "  For  the  water,  my  lad, 
You  're  too  big,  and  must  stoop ;  for  a  kiss,  it 's  as 
bad,  — 

You  ain't  near  big  enough."    And  I  turned  in  a  huff, 
When  that  Major  he  laid  his  white  hand  on  my  cuff, 
And  he  says,  "  You  're  a  trump  !    Take  my  pistol,  don't 
fear ! 

But  shoot  the  next  man  that  insults  you,  my  dear." 

Then  he  stooped  to  the  pool,  very  quiet  and  cool, 
Leavin'  me  with  that  pistol  stuck  there  like  a  fool, 
When  thar  flashed  on  my  sight  a  quick  glimmer  of  light 
From  the  top  of  the  little  stone-fence  on  the  right, 
And  I  knew 't  was  a  rifle,  and  back  of  it  all 
Rose  the  face  of  that  bushwhacker,  Cherokee  Hall ! 


268       THE  IDYL  OF  BATTLE  HOLLOW. 


Then  I  felt  in  my  dread  that  the  moment  the  head 
Of  the  Major  was  lifted,  the  Major  was  dead  ; 
And  I  stood  still  and  white,  but  Lord  !  gals,  in  spite 
Of  my  care,  that  derned  pistol  went  off  in  my  fright ! 
Went  off  —  true  as  Gospil !  —  and,  strangest  of  all, 
It  actooally  injured  that  Cherokee  Hall. 

Thet 's  all,— now,  go  long.   Yes,  some  folks  thinks  it 's 
wrong. 

And  thar 's  some  wants  to  know  to  what  side  I  belong ; 
But  I  says,  "  Served  him  right !  "  and  I  go,  all  my  might, 
In  love  or  in  war,  for  a  fair,  stand-up  fight ; 
And  as  for  the  Major  —  sho  !  gals,  don't  you  know 
Thet  —  Lord  !  —  thar 's  his  step  in  the  garden  below. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISS  BLANCHE  SAYS. 

And  you  are  the  poet,  and  so  yon  want 

Something —  what  is  it  ?  —  a  theme,  a  fancy  ? 

Something  or  other  the  muse  won't  grant 
In  your  old  poetical  necromancy  ; 

Why,  one  half  your  poets  —  you  can't  deny  — - 

Don't  know  the  Muse  when  you  chance  to  meet  her, 
But  sit  in  your  attics  and  mope  and  sigh 
For  a  faineant  goddess  to  drop  from  the  sky, 
"When  flesh  and  blood  may  be  standing  by 

Quite  at  your  service,  should  you  but  greet  her* 

What  if  I  told  you  my  own  romance  ? 

Women  are  poets,  if  you  so  take  them, 
One  third  poet,  —  the  rest  what  chance 

Of  man  and  marriage  may  choose  to  make  them. 
Give  me  ten  minutes  before  you  go,  — 

Here  at  the  window  we  '11  sit  together, 


270 


MISS  BLANCHE  SAYS. 


Watching  the  currents  that  ebb  and  flow ; 

Watching  the  world  as  it  drifts  below 
Up  to  the  hot  avenue's  dusty  glow : 

Is  n't  it  pleasant,  —  this  bright  June  weather  ? 

Well,  it  was  after  the  war  broke  out, 

And  I  was  a  school-girl  fresh  from  Paris ; 

Papa  had  contracts,  and  roamed  about, 

And  I  —  did  nothing  —  for  I  was  an  heiress.  - 

Picked  some  lint,  now  I  think  ;  perhaps 
Knitted  some  stockings  —  a  dozen  nearly ; 
Havelocks  made  for  the  soldiers'  caps ; 
Stood  at  fair-tables  and  peddled  traps 
Quite  at  a  profit.    The  shoulder-straps 

Thought  I  was  pretty.    Ah,  thank  you,  really. 

Still,  it  was  stupid.    Patatat-tat ! 

Those  were  the  sounds  of  that  battle  summer, 
Till  the  earth  seemed  a  parchment  round  and  flat, 

And  every  footfall  the  tap  of  a  drummer ; 
And,  day  by  day,  down  the  avenue  went 

Cavalry,  Infantry,  all  together, 
Till  my  pitying  angel  one  day  sent 

My  fate  in  the  shape  of  a  regiment 
That  halted,  just  as  the  day  was  spent, 

Here  at  our  door  in  the  bright  June  weather. 


MISS  BLANCHE  SAYS. 


271 


None  of  your  dandy  warriors  they : 

Men  from  the  West,  but  where,  I  know  not ; 
Haggard  and  travel-stained,  worn  and  gray, 

With  never  a  ribbon  or  lace  or  bow-knot : 
And  I  opened  the  window,  and  leaning  there, 

I  felt  in  their  presence  the  free  winds  blowing ; 
My  neck  and  shoulders  and  arms  were  bare,  — 

I  did  not  dream  they  might  think  me  fair, 
But  I  had  some  flowers  that  night  in  my  hair, 

And  here,  on  my  bosom,  a  red  rose  glowing. 

And  I  looked  from  the  window  along  the  line, 
Dusty  and  dirty  and  grim  and  solemn, 

Till  an  eye  like  a  bayonet-flash  met  mine 

And  a  dark  face  blazed  from  the  darkening  column, 
And  a  quick  flame  leaped  to  my  eyes  and  hair 
Till  cheeks  and  shoulders  burned  all  together, 
And  the  next  I  found  myself  standing  there 
With  my  eyelids  wet  and  my  cheeks  less  fair, 
And  the  rose  from  my  bosom  tossed  high  in  air 
Like  a  blood-drop  falling  on  plume  and  feather. 

Then  I  drew  back  quickly  :  there  came  a  cheer, 

A  rush  of  figures,  a  noise  and  tussle, 
And  then  it  was  over,  and  high  and  clear, 

My  red  rose  bloomed  on  his  gun's  black  muzzle. 


272 


MISS  BLANCHE  SAYS. 


Then  far  in  the  darkness  a  sharp  voice  cried, 

And  slowly,  and  steadily,  all  together, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  side  to  side, 
Rising  and  falling,  and  swaying  wide, 
But  bearing  above  them  the  rose,  my  pride, 

They  marched  away  in  the  twilight  weather. 

And  I  leaned  from  my  window  and  watched  my  rose, 

Tossed  on  the  waves  of  the  surging  column, 
Warmed  from  above  in  the  sunset  glows, 

Borne  from  below  by  an  impulse  solemn. 
Then  I  shut  the  window.    I  heard  no  more 
Of  my  soldier  friend,  my  flower  neither, 
But  lived  my  life  as  I  did  before ; 
I  did  not  go  as  nurse  to  the  war,  — 
Sick  folks  to  me  are  a  dreadful  bore,  •— 
So  I  did  n't  go  to  the  hospital,  either. 

You  smile,  O  poet,  and  what  do  you  ? 

You  lean  from  your  window,  and  watch  life's  column 
Trampling  and  struggling  through  clust  and  dew, 

Filled  with  its  purposes  grave  and  solemn  ; 
And  an  act,  a  gesture,  a  face,  —  who  knows  ?  — 

Touches  your  fancy  to  thrill  and  haunt  you, 
And  you  pluck  from  your  bosom  the  verse  that  grows, 

And  down  it  flies  like  my  red,  red  rose, 


MISS  BLANCHE  SAYS. 


273 


And  you  sit  and  dream  as  away  it  goes, 

And  think  that  your  duty  is  done,  —  now*  don't  you  ? 

I  know  your  answer.    I 'm  not  yet  through. 

Look  at  this  photograph  —  "  In  the  Trenches  :  " 
That  dead  man  in  the  coat  of  blue 

Holds  a  withered  rose  in  his  hand.    That  clenches 
Nothing !    Except  that  the  sun  paints  true, 
And  a  woman  is  sometimes  prophetic-minded. 
And  that 's  my  romance.    And,  poet,  you 
Take  it  and  mould  it  to  suit  your  view  ; 
And  who  knows  but  you  may  find  it  too 
Come  back  to  your  heart  once  more  as  mine  did. 
18 


HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER. 


"  So  she 's  here,  your  unknown  Dulcinea,  —  the  lady 

you  met  on  the  train, 
And  you  really  believe  she  would  know  you  if  you  were 

to  meet  her  again  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  "  she  would  know  me ;  there 

never  was  womankind  yet 
Forgot  the  effect  she  inspired  ;  she  excuses,  but  does 

not  forget." 

"  Then  you  told  her  your  love  ?  "  asked  the  elder ;  the 

younger  looked  up  with  a  smile, 
"  I  sat  by  her  side  half  an  hour,  —  what  else  was  I  doing 

the  while ! 

"  What,  sit  by  the  side  of  a  woman  as  fair  as  the  sun  in 

the  sky, 

And  look  somewhere  else  lest  the  dazzle  flash  back  from 
your  own  to  her  eye  ? 

"  No,  I  hold  that  the  speech  of  the  tongue  be  as  frank 
and  as  bold  as  the  look, 


HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER.  275 


And  I  held  up  herself  to  herself,  —  that  was  more  than 
she  got  from  her  book." 

"  Young  blood  !  "  laughed  the  elder  ;  "  no  doubt  you  are 

voicing  the  mode  of  To-Day  ; 
But  then  we  old  fogies,  at  least,  gave  the  lady  some 

chance  for  delay. 

"  There 's  my  wife  —  (you  must  know)  —  we  first  met 
on  the  journey  from  Florence  to  Rome : 

It  took  me  three  weeks  to  discover  who  was  she  and 
where  was  her  home ; 

"  Three  more  to  be  duly  presented ;  three  more  ere  I 

saw  her  again ; 
And  a  year  ere  my  romance  began  where  yours  ended 

that  day  on  the  train." 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  style  of  the  stage-coach ;  we  travel 

to-day  by  express  ; 
Forty  miles  to  the  hour,"  he  answered,  "  won't  admit  of 

a  passion  that's  less." 

a  But  what  if  you  make  a  mistake  ?  "  quoth  the  elder. 
The  younger  half  sighed. 

"  What  happens  when  signals  are  wrong  or  switches  mis- 
placed ?  "  he  replied. 


276      HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER. 


«  Very  well,  I  must  bow  to  your  wisdom,"  the  elder  re- 
turned, "  but  submit 

Your  chances  of  winning  this  woman  your  boldness  has 
bettered  no  whit. 

"  Why,  you  do  not,  at  best,  know  her  name.   And  what 

if  I  try  your  ideal 
With  something,  if  not  quite  so  fair,  at  least  more  en 

regie  and  real  ? 

"  Let  me  find  you  a  partner.  Nay,  come,  I  insist  —  you 

shall  follow  —  this  way. 
My  dear,  will  you  not  add  your  grace  to  entreat  Mr. 

Rapid  to  stay  ? 

"  My  wife,  Mr.  Rapid  —  Eh,  what !   Why,  he 's  gone,  — 

yet  he  said  he  would  come  ; 
How  rude !    I  don't  wonder,  my  dear,  you  are  properly 

crimson  and  dumb !  — 


DOLLY  VARDEN. 


Dear  Dolly  !  who  does  not  recall 
The  thrilling  page  that  pictured  all 
Those  charms  that  held  our  sense  in  thrall 

Just  as  the  artist  caught  her,  — ■ 
As  down  that  English  lane  she  tripped, 
In  flowered  chintz,  hat  sideways  tipped, 
Trim-bodiced,  bright-eyed,  roguish-lipped,  — 

The  locksmith's  pretty  daughter  ? 

Sweet  fragment  of  the  Master's  art ! 
O  simple  faith  !    O  rustic  heart ! 
O  maid  that  hath  no  counterpart 

In  life's  dry,  dog-eared  pages  ! 
Where  shall  we  find  thy  like  ?    Ah,  stay  ! 
Methinks  I  saw  her  yesterday 
In  chintz  that  flowered,  as  one  might  say, 

Perennial  for  ages. 

Her  father's  modest  cot  was  stone, 
Five  stories  high.    In  style  and  tone 
Composite,  and,  I  frankly  own, 
Within  its  walls  revealing 


DOLLY  VARDEN. 


Some  certain  novel,  strange  ideas  : 
A  Gothic  door  with  Roman  piers, 
And  floors  removed  some  thousand  years 
From  their  Pompeiian  ceiling. 

The  small  salon  where  she  received 
Was  Louis  Quatorze,  and  relieved 
By  Chinese  cabinets,  conceived 

Grotesquely  by  the  heathen  ; 
The  sofas  were  a  classic  sight,  — 
The  Roman  bench  (sedilia  height)  ; 
The  chairs  were  French,  in  gold  and  white, 

And  one  Elizabethan. 

And  she,  the  goddess  of  that  shrine, 
Two  ringed  fingers  placed  in  mine,  — 
The  stones  were  many  carats  fine, 

And  of  the  purest  water,  — 
Then  dropped  a  courtesy,  far  enough 
To  fairly  fill  her  cretonne  puff 
And  show  the  petticoat's  rich  stuff 

That  her  fond  parent  bought  her. 

Her  speech  was  simple  as  her  dress,  — 
Not  French  the  more,  but  English  less, 
She  loved  ;  yet  sometimes,  I  confess, 
I  scarce  could  comprehend  her. 


DOLLY  VARDEN. 


279 


Her  manners  were  quite  far  from  shy  : 
There  was  a  quiet  in  her  eye 
Appalling  to  the  Hugh  who 'd  try 
With  rudeness  to  offend  her. 

"  But  whence,"  I  cried,  "  this  masquerade  ? 
Some  figure  for  to-night's  charade,  — 
A  Watteau  shepherdess  or  maid  ?  " 
She  smiled,  and  begged  my  pardon  : 
"  Why,  surely  you  must  know  the  name,  — 
That  woman  who  was  Shakespeare's  flame, 
Or  Byron's  —  well,  it 's  all  the  same  : 
"  Why,  Lord  !    I 'm  Dolly  Varden !  " 


WHAT  THE  CHIMNEY  SANG. 


Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 

And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew  ;* 
And  the  Woman  stopped,  as  her  babe  she  tossed, 
And  thought  of  the  one  she  had  long  since  lost, 
And  said,  as  her  tear-drops  back  she  forced, 

"  I  hate  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 

And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 
And  the  Children  said,  as  they  closer  drew, 

"  'T  is  some  witch  that  is  cleaving  the  black  night 
through,  — 
'T  is  a  fairy  trumpet  that  just  then  blew, 

And  we  fear  the  wind  in  the  chimney." 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 

And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 
And  the  Man,  as  he  sat  on  his  hearth  below, 

Said  to  himself,  "  It  will  surely  snow, 
And  fuel  is  dear,  and  wages  low, 

And  I  '11  stop  the  leak  in  the  chimney." 


WHAT  THE  CHIMNEY  SANG. 

Over  the  chimney  the  night-wind  sang 
And  chanted  a  melody  no  one  knew ; 

But  the  Poet  listened  and  smiled,  for  he 
Was  Man,  and  Woman,  and  Child,  all  three, 

And  he  said,  "  It  is  God's  own  harmony,  • 
This  wind  that  sings  in  the  chimney.' ' 


GUILD'S  SIGNAL. 


William  Gu*ld  was  engineer  of  the  train  which  on  the  19th  of 
April  plunged  into  Meadow  Brook,  on  the  line  of  the  Stonington  and 
Providence  Railroad.  It  was  his  custom,  as  often  as  he  passed  his 
home,  to  whistle  an  "All's  well"  to  his  wife.  He  was  found,  after 
the  disaster,  dead,  with  his  hand  on  the  throttle- valve  of  his  engine. 

Two  low  whistles,  quaint  and  clear, 
That  was  the  signal  the  engineer  — 

That  was  the  signal  that  Guild,  't  is  said  — 
Gave  to  his  wife  at  Providence, 
As  through  the  sleeping  town,  and  thence 
Out  in  the  night, 
On  to  the  light, 
Down  past  the  farms,  lying  white,  he  sped ! 

As  a  husband's  greeting,  scant,  no  doubt, 
Yet  to  the  woman  looking  out, 

Watching  and  waiting,  no  serenade, 
Love-song,  or  midnight  roundelay 
Said  what  that  whistle  seemed  to  say  : 
"  To  my  trust  true, 
So  love  to  you ! 
Working  or  waiting,  good  night !  "  it  said. 


GUILD'S  SIGNAL. 


283 


Brisk  young  bagmen,  tourists  fine, 
Old  commuters  along  the  line, 

Brakemen  and  porters  glanced  ahead, 
Smiled  as  the  signal,  sharp,  intense, 
Pierced  through  the  shadows  of  Providence,  — 
"  Nothing  amiss  — 
Nothing  !  —  it  is 
Only  Guild  calling  his  wife,"  they  said. 

Summer  and  Winter,  the  old  refrain 
Rang  o'er  the  billows  of  ripening  grain, 

Pierced  through  the  budding  boughs  o'erhead, 
Flew  down  the  track  when  the  red  leaves  burned . 
Like  living  coals  from  the  engine  spurned ; 
Sang  as  it  flew  : 
"  To  our  trust  true, 
First  of  all,  duty  !    Good  night !  "  it  said. 

And  then,  one  night,  it  was  heard  no  more 
From  Stonington  over  Rhode  Island  shore, 

And  the  folk  in  Providence  smiled  and  said, 
As  they  turned  in  their  beds,  Ci  The  engineer 
Has  once  forgotten  his  midnight  cheer." 
One  only  knew, 
.  To  his  trust  true, 
Guild  lay  under  his  engine,  dead. 


CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD. 


NEW  JERSEY. 
1780. 

Here's  the  spot.    Look  around  you.    Above  on  the 
height 

Lay  the  Hessians  encamped.    By  that  church  on  the 
right 

Stood  the  gaunt  Jersey  farmers.  And  here  ran  a  wall, — 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you  '11  turn  up  a  ball. 
Nothing  more.     Grasses  spring,  waters  run,  flowers 
blow, 

Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 

Nothing  more,  did  I  say  ?    Stay  one  moment ;  you  Ve 
heard 

Of  Caldwell,  the  parson,  who  once  preached  the  word 
Down  at  Springfield  ?    What,  No  ?   Come  —  that 's  bad, 
why  he  had 

All  the  Jerseys  aflame  !    And  they  gave  him  the  name 
Of  the  "  rebel  high-priest.''    He  stuck  in  their  gorge, 
For  he  loved  the  Lord  God, — and  he  hated  King 
George ! 


CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD.  285 


He  had  cause,  you  might  say  !    When  the  Hessians 
that  day 

Marched  up  with  Knyphausen  they  stopped  on  their 
way 

At  the  "  Farms,"  where  his  wife,  with  a  child  in  her 
arms, 

Sat  alone  in  the  house.    How  it  happened  none  knew 
But  God  —  and  that  one  of  the  hireling  crew 
Who  fired  the  shot !    Enough  !  —  there  she  lay, 
And  Caldwell,  the  chaplain,  her  husband,  away  ! 

Did  he  bear  it  — what  way  ?  Think  of  him  as  you  stand 
By  the  old  church  to-day  ;  —  think  of  him  and  that  band 
Of  militant  ploughboys  !  See  the  smoke  and  the  heat 
Of  that  reckless  advance,  —  of  that  straggling  retreat ! 
Keep  the  ghost  of  that  wife,  foully  slain,  in  your  view,  — > 
And  what  could  you,  what  should  you,  what  would  you 
do? 

Why,  just  what  he  did !    They  were  left  in  the  lurch 
For  the  want  of  more  wadding.    He  ran  to  the  church, 
Broke  the  door,  stripped  the  pews,  and  dashed  out  in 
the  road 

With  his  arms  full  of  hymn-books,  and  threw  down  his 
load 

At  their  feet !    Then  above  all  the  shouting  and  shots, 
Rang  his  voice,  —  "  Put  Watts  into  'em,  —  Boys,  give 
'em  Watts ! " 


286  CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD. 

And  they  did.    That  is  all.    Grasses  spring,  flowers 
blow 

Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety- three  years  ago. 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball,  — 
But  not  always  a  hero  like  this,  —  and  that 's  all. 


GRANDMOTHER  TENTERDEN. 


MASSACHUSETTS  SHORE. 
1800. 

I  mind  it  was  but  yesterday,  — 

The  sun  was  dim,  the  air  was  chill ; 
Below  the  town,  below  the  hill, 
The  sails  of  my  son's  ship  did  fill,  — ■ 
My  Jacob,  who  was  cast  away. 

He  said,  "  God  keep  you,  mother  dear," 
But  did  not  turn  to  kiss  his  wife  : 
They  had  some  foolish,  idle  strife ; 
Her  tongue  was  like  a  two-edged  knife, 

And  he  was  proud  as  any  peer. 

Howbeit  that  night  I  took  no  note 
Of  sea  nor  sky,  for  all  was  drear ; 
I  marked  not  that  the  hills  looked  near, 
Nor  that  the  moon,  though  curved  and  clear, 

Through  curd-like  scud  did  drive  and  float. 


GRANDMOTHER  TENTERDEN. 


For  with  my  darling  went  the  joy 
Of  autumn  woods  and  meadows  brown  ; 
I  came  to  hate  the  little  town  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  went  down 

With  him,  my  only  darling  boy. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night, 
The  wind  it  shifted  west-by-south  ; 
It  piled  high  up  the  harbor  mouth ; 
The  marshes,  black  with  summer  drouth, 

Were  all  abroad  with  sea-foam  white. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night,  — 
The  sea  upon  the  garden  leapt, 
And  my  son's  wife  in  quiet  slept, 
And  I,  his  mother,  waked  and  wept, 

When  lo !  there  came  a  sudden  light. 

And  there  he  stood !  his  seaman's  dress 
All  wet  and  dripping  seemed  to  be ; 
The  pale  blue  fires  of  the  sea 
Dripped  from  his  garments  constantly,  — 

I  could  not  speak  through  cowardness. 

"  I  come  through  night  and  storm,"  he  said ; 
"  Through  storm  and  night  and  death,"  said  he, 
"  To  kiss  my  wife,  if  it  so  be 


GRANDMOTHER  TENTERDEN. 


That  strife  still  holds  'twixt  her  and  me, 
For  all  beyond  is  Peace,"  he  said. 

"  The  sea  is  His,  and  He  who  sent 
The  wind  and  wave  can  soothe  their  strife ; 
And  brief  and  foolish  is  our  life." 
He  stooped  and  kissed  his  sleeping  wife, 

Then  sighed,  and,  like  a  dream,  he  went. 

Now,  when  my  darling  kissed  not  me, 
But  her  —  his  wife  —  who  did  not  wake, 
My  heart  within  me  seemed  to  break ; 
I  swore  a  vow !  nor  thenceforth  spake 

Of  what  my  clearer  eyes  did  see. 

And  when  the  slow  weeks  brought  him  not, 
Somehow  we  spake  of  aught  beside  ; 
For  she,  —  her  hope  upheld  her  pride  ; 
And  I,  —  in  me  all  hope  had  died, 

And  my  son  passed  as  if  forgot. 

It  was  about  the  next  spring-tide, 
She  pined  and  faded  where  she  stood ; 
Yet  spake  no  word  of  ill  or  good ; 
She  had  the  hard,  cold  Edwards'  blood 

In  all  her  veins,  —  and  so  she  died. 
19 


GRANDMOTHER  TENTERDEN. 

One  time  I  thought,  before  she  passed, 
To  give  her  peace,  but  ere  I  spake 
Methought,  "  He  will  be  first  to  break 
The  news  in  Heaven,"  and  for  his  sake 

I  held  mine  back  until  the  last. 

And  here  I  sit,  nor  care  to  roam ; 
I  only  wait  to  hear  his  call ; 
I  doubt  not  that  this  day,  next  fall, 
Shall  see  me  safe  in  port ;  where  all 

And  every  ship  at  last  comes  home. 

And  you  have  sailed  the  Spanish  main, 
And  knew  my  Jacob  ?  .  .  .  .  Eh  !    Mercy ! 
Ah,  God  of  wisdom !  hath  the  sea 
Yielded  its  dead  to  humble  me ! 

My  boy !   My  boy  !   Nay  Jacob —  turn  again 


POEM. 

delivered  on  the  fourteenth  anniversary  of 
California's  admission  into  the  union. 

September  9,  1864. 

We  meet  in  Peace,  though  from  our  native  East 
The  sun  that  sparkles  on  our  birthday  feast 
Glanced  as  he  rose  in  fields  whose  dews  were  red 
With  darker  tints  than  those  Aurora  spread ; 
Though  shorn  his  rays,  —  his  welcome  disk  concealed 
In  the  dim  smoke  that  veiled  each  battle-field, 
Still  striving  upward,  in  meridian  pride, 
He  climbed  the  walls  that  East  and  West  divide, — 
Saw  his  bright  face  flashed  back  from  golden  sand, 
And  sapphire  seas  that  lave  the  Western  land. 

Strange  was  the  contrast  that  such  scenes  disclose 
From  his  high  vantage  o'er  eternal  snows  : 
There  War's  alarm  the  brazen  trumpet  rings,  — 
Here  his  love-song  the  mailed  cicada  sings ; 
There  bayonets  glitter  through  the  forest  glades,  — 
Here  yellow  cornfields  stack  their  peaceful  blades  • 


292 


POEM. 


There  the  deep  trench  where  Valor  finds  a  grave,  — 
Here  the  long  ditch  that  curbs  the  peaceful  wave ; 
There  the  bold  sapper  with  his  lighted  train,  — 
Here  the  dark  tunnel  and  its  stores  of  gain ; 
Here  the  full  harvest  and  the  wain's  advance,  — 
There  the  Grim  Reaper  and  the  ambulance. 

With  scenes  so  adverse,  what  mysterious  bond 
Links  our  fair  fortunes  to  the  shores  beyond  ? 
Why  come  we  here,  —  last  of  a  scattered  fold,  — 
To  pour  new  metal  in  the  broken  mould  ? 
To  yield  our  tribute,  stamped  with  Caesar's  face, 
To  Caesar,  stricken  in  the  market-place  ? 

Ah,  Love  of  Country  is  the  secret  tie 
That  joins  these  contrasts  'neath  one  arching  sky ; 
Though  brighter  paths  our  peaceful  steps  explore,  — 
We  meet  together  at  the  Nation's  door. 
War  winds  her  horn,  and  giant  cliffs  go  down 
Like  the  high  walls  that  girt  the  sacred  town, 
And  bares  the  pathway  to  her  throbbing  heart, 
From  clustered  village  and  from  crowded  mart. 

Part  of  God's  providence  it  was  to  found 
A  nation's  bulwark  on  this  chosen  ground,  — 
Not  Jesuit's  zeal  nor  Pioneer's  unrest 
Planted  these  pickets  in  the  distant  West ; 


POEM. 


293 


But  He  who  first  the  nation's  fate  forecast 
Placed  here  His  fountains  sealed  for  ages  past, 
Rock-ribbed  and  guarded  till  the  coming  time 
Should  lit  the  people  for  their  work  sublime  ; 
When  a  new  Moses  with  his  rod  of  steel 
Smote  the  tall  cliffs  with  one  wide-ringing  peal, 
And  the  old  miracle  in  record  told 
To  the  new  nation  was  revealed  in  Gold. 

Judge  not  too  idly  that  our  toils  are  mean, 
Though  no  new  levies  marshal  on  our  green  ; 
Nor  deem  too  rashly  that  our  gains  are  small, 
Weighed  with  the  prizes  for  which  heroes  fall. 
See,  where  thick  vapor  wreathes  the  battle  line ; 
There  Mercy  follows  with  her  oil  and  wine ; 
Or  where  brown  Labor  with  its  peaceful  charm 
Stiffens  the  sinews  of  the  Nation's  arm, 
What  nerves  its  hands  to  strike  a  deadlier  blow, 
And  hurl  its  legions  on  the  distant  foe  ? 
Lo !  for  each  town  new  rising  o'er  our  State 
See  the  foe's  hamlet  waste  and  desolate, 
While  each  new  factory  trains  a  chimney  tall, 
Like  a  new  mortar,  on  the  foeman's  wall. 

For  this,  O  brothers,  swings  the  fruitful  vine, 
Spread  our  broad  pastures  with  their  countless  kine ; 
Eor  this  o'erhead  the  arching  vault  springs  clear, 


294  POEM. 

Sunlit  and  cloudless  for  one  half  the  year ; 
For  this  no  snow-flake,  e'er  so  lightly  pressed. 
Chills  the  warm  impulse  of  our  mother's  breast. 
Quick  to  reply,  from  meadows  brown  and  sere, 
She  thrills  responsive  to  Spring's  earliest  tear  ; 
Breaks  into  blossom,  flings  her  loveliest  rose 
Ere  the  white  crocus  mounts  Atlantic  snows  ; 
And  the  example  of  her  liberal  creed 
Teaches  the  lesson  that  to-day  we  need. 

Thus  ours  the  lot  with  peaceful,  generous  hand 
To  spread  our  bounty  o'er  the  suffering  land  ; 
As  the  deep  cleft  in  Mariposa's  wall 
Hurls  a  vast  river  splintering  in  its  fall,  — 
Though  the  rapt  soul  who  stands  in  awe  below 
Sees  but  the  arching  of  the  promised  bow,  — 
Lo !  the  far  streamlet  drinks  its  dews  unseen, 
And  the  whole  valley  wakes  a  brighter  green. 


BATTLE  BUNNY. 


MALVERN  HILL,  1864. 

"  After  the  men  were  ordered  to  lie  down,  a  white  rabbit,  which  had 
been  hopping  hither  and  thither  over  the  field  swept  by  grape  and 
musketry,  took  refuge  among  the  skirmishers,  in  the  breast  of  a  cor- 
poral."— Report  of  the  Battle  of  Malvern  Hill. 

Bunny,  lying  in  the  grass, 
Saw  the  shining  column  pass  ; 
Saw  the  starry  banner  fly, 
Saw  the  chargers  fret  and  fume, 
Saw  the  flapping  hat  and  plume  — 
Saw  them  with  his  moist  and  shy 
Most  un  speculative  eye, 
Thinking  only  in  the  dew, 
That  it  was  a  fine  review  — 
Till  a  flash  not  all  of  steel, 
Where  the  rolling  caisson's  wheel, 
Brought  a  rumble  and  a  roar 
Rolling  down  that  velvet  floor, 
And  like  blows  of  autumn  flail 
Sharply  threshed  the  iron  hail. 


BATTLj:  BUNNY. 


Bunny,  thrilled  by  unknown  fears, 
Raised  his  soft  and  pointed  ears, 
Mumbled  his  prehensile  lip, 
Quivered  his  pulsating  hip, 
As  the  sharp  vindictive  yell 
Rose  above  the  screaming  shell ; 
Thought  the  world  and  all  its  men 
All  the  charging  squadrons  meant 
All  were  rabbit-hunters  then, 
All  to  capture  him  intent. 
Bunny  was  not  much  to  blame  : 
Wiser  folk  have  thought  the  same 
Wiser  folk  who  think  they  spy 
Every  ill  begins  with  "  I." 

Wildly  panting  here  and  there, 
Bunny  sought  the  freer  air, 
Till  he  hopped  below  the  hill, 
And  saw,  lying  close  and  still, 
Men  with  muskets  in  their  hands. 
(Never  Bunny  understands 
That  hypocrisy  of  sleep, 
In  the  vigils  grim  they  keep, 
As  recumbent  on  that  spot 
They  elude  the  level  shot.) 

One  —  a  grave  and  quiet  man, 
Thinking  of  his  wife  and  child 


BATTLE  BUNNY. 


297 


Far  beyond  the  Rapidan, 
Where  the  Androscoggin  smiled  — 
Felt  the  little  rabbit  creep, 
Nestling  by  his  arm  and  side, 
Wakened  from  strategic  sleep, 
To  that  soft  appeal  replied, 
Drew  him  to  his  blackened  breast, 
And  — 

But  you  have  guessed  the  rest. 
Softly  o'er  that  chosen  pair 
Omnipresent  Love  and  Care 
Drew  a  mightier  Hand  and  Arm, 
Shielding  them  from  every  harm ; 
Right  and  left  the  bullets  waved, 
Saved  the  saviour  for  the  saved. 


Who  believes  that  equal  grace 
God  extends  in  every  place, 
Little  difference  he  scans 
'Twixt  a  rabbit's  God  and  man's. 


WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG. 


O  joy  of  creation 
To  be! 

0  rapture  to  fly 

And  be  free ! 
Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun 

1  shall  find  my  love  —  the  one 

Born  for  me  1 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands, 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  o'erthrown  ; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  godlike  front  and  grace ; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space, 

All  my  own ! 

It  is  he  —  O  my  love  ! 

So  bold ! 
It  is  I  —  All  thy  love 
Foretold ! 


WHAT  THE  BULLET  SANG. 


299 


It  is  I.    O  love  !  what  bliss  ! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss  ? 
O  sweetheart !  what  is  this 

Lieth  here  so  cold  ? 


THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE. 


It  was  noon  by  the  sun  ;  we  had  finished  our  game, 
And  was  passin'  remarks  goin'  back  to  our  claim  ; 
Jones  was  countin'  his  chips,  Smith  relievin'  his  mind 
Of  ideas  that  a  "  straight "  should  beat  "  three  of  a 
kind," 

When  Johnson  of  Elko  came  gallopin'  down, 
With  a  look  on  his  face  'twixt  a  grin  and  a  frown, 
And  he  calls,  "  Drop  your  shovels  and  face  right  about, 
For  them  Chinees  from  Murphy's  are  cleanin'  us  out  — 

With  their  ching-a-ring-chow 

And  their  chic-colorow 

They  're  bent  upon  making 

No  slouch  of  a  row. " 

Then  Jones  —  my  own  pardner  —  looks  up  with  a  sigh, 
"  It 's  your  wash-bill, "  sez  he,  and  I  answers,  "  You  lie !  " 
But  afore  he  could  draw  or  the  others  could  arm, 
Up  tumbles  the  Bates'  boys,  who  heard  the  alarm. 
And  a  yell  from  the  hill-top  and  roar  of  a  gong, 
Mixed  up  with  remarks  like  "  Hi !  yi !  Chang-a-wong," 


THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE.  301 


And  bombs,  shells,  and  crackers,  that  crash  through  the 
trees, 

Revealed  in  their  war-togs  four  hundred  Chinees  ! 
Four  hundred  Chinee ; 
We  are  eight,  don't  ye  see  ! 
That  made  a  square  fifty 
To  just  one  o'  we. 

They  were  dressed  in  their  best,  but  I  grieve  that  that 

same 

Was  largely  made  up  of  our  own,  to  their  shame ; 
And  my  pardner's  best  shirt  and  his  trousers  were 
hung 

On  a  spear,  and  above  him  were  tauntingly  swung: 
While  that  beggar,  Chey  Lee,  like  a  conjuror  sat 
Pullin'  out  eggs  and  chickens  from  Johnson's  best  hat ; 
And  Bates'  game  rooster  was  part  of  their  "  loot," 
And  all  of  Smith's  pigs  were  skyugled  to  boot ; 
But  the  climax  was  reached,  and  I  like  to  have  died, 
When  my  demijohn,  empty,  came  down  the  hillside,  — 

Down  the  hillside  — 

What  once  held  the  pride 

Of  Robertson  County 

Pitched  down  the  hillside ! 

Then  we  axed  for  a  parley.  When  out  of  the  din, 
To  the  front  comes  a-rockin'  that  heathen,  Ah  Sin ! 


302      THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE. 


"  You  owe  flowty  dollee  —  me  washee  you  camp, 
You  catchee  my  washee  —  me  catchee  no  stamp  ; 
One  dollar  hap  dozen,  me  no  catchee  yet, 
Now  that  flowty  dollee  —  no  hab  ?  —  how  can  get? 
Me  catchee  you  piggee  —  me  sellee  for  cash, 
It  catchee  me  Hcee  —  you  catchee  no  6  hash  ' ; 
Me  belly  good  Sheliff  —  me  lebee  when  can, 
Me  allee  same  halp  pin  as  Melican  man ! 

But  Melican  man 

He  washee  him  pan 

On  bottom  side  hillee 

And  catchee  —  how  can  ? 

"Are  we  men?"  says  Joe  Johnson,  "and  list  to  this 

jaw, 

Without  process  of  warrant  or  color  of  law  ? 
Are  we  men  or  —  a-chew  ?  "  —  here  he  gasped  in  his 
speech, 

For  a  stink-pot  had  fallen  just  out  of  his  reach. 
"  Shall  we  stand  here  as  idle,  and  let  Asia  pour 
Her  barbaric  hordes  on  this  civilized  shore  ? 
Has  the  White  Man  no  country  ?  are  we  left  in  the 
lurch  ? 

And  likewise  what 's  gone  of  the  Established  Church? 
One  man  to  four  hundred  is  great  odds,  I  own, 
But  this  yer 's  a  White  Man  —  I  plays  it  alone  !  " 


THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE.  303 


And  he  sprang  up  the  hillside — to  stop  him  none 
dare  — 

Till  a  yell  from  the  top  told  a  "  White  Man  was 
there  ! " 

A  White  Man  was  there  ! 
We  prayed  he  might  spare 
Those  misguided  heathens 
The  few  clothes  they  wear. 

They  fled,  and  he  followed,  but  no  matter  where ; 
They  fled  to  escape  him,  —  the  "  White  Man  was 
there,"  — 

Till  we  missed  first  his  voice  on  the  pine- wooded  slope, 
And  we   knew  for  the  heathen  henceforth  was  no 
hope  ; 

And  the  yells  (hey  grew  fainter,  when  Petersen  said, 
"  It  simply  was  human  to  bury  his  dead.  " 

And  then,  with  slow  tread, 

Wre  crept  up,  in  dread, 

But  found  nary  mortal  there, 

Living  or  dead. 

But  there  was  his  trad,  and  the  way  that  they  came, 
And  yonder,  no  doubt,  he  was  bagging  his  game. 
When  Jones  drops  his  pickaxe,  and  Thompson  says 
"Shoo!" 

And  both  of  'em  points  to  a  cage  of  bamboo 


304       THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE. 


Hanging  down  from  a  tree,  with  a  label  that  swung 
Conspicuous  with  letters  in  some  foreign  tongue, 
Which,  when  freely  translated,  the  same  did  appear 
Was  the  Chinese  for  saying,  "  A  White  Man  is  here  ! 99 

And  as  we  drew  near, 

In  anger  and  fear, 

Bound  hand  and  foot,  Johnson 

Looked  down  with  a  leer ! 

In  his  mouth  was  an  opium  pipe  —  which  was  why 
He  leered  at  us  so  with  a  drunken-like  eye  ! 
They  had  shaved  off  his  eyebrows,  and  tacked  on  a 
cue, 

They  had  painted  his  face  of  a  coppery  hue, 
And  rigged  him  all  up  in  a  heathenish  suit, 
Then  softly  departed,  each  man  with  his  "  loot," 

Yes,  every  galoot, 

And  Ah  Sin,  to  boot, 

Had  left  him  there  hanging 

Like  ripening  fruit. 

At  a  mass  meeting  held  up  at  Murphy's  next  day 
There  were  seventeen  speakers  and  each  had  his  say ; 
There  were  twelve  resolutions  that  instantly  passed, 
And  each  resolution  was  worse  than  the  last ; 
There  were  fourteen  petitions,  which,  granting  the  same, 
Will  determine  what  Governor  Murphy's  shall  name; 


THE  LATEST  CHINESE  OUTRAGE.  305 

And  the  man  from  our  District  that  goes  up  next  year 
Goes  up  on  one  issue  —  that  \s  patent  and  clear : 
"  Can  the  work  of  a  mean, 

Degraded,  unclean 

Believer  in  Buddha 

Be  held  as  a  lien  ? 99 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROAD. 


SIERRAS)  1876. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


First  Tourist. 
Second  Tourist 


«  Yuba  Bill,"  Driver. 
A  Stranger. 


FIRST  TOURIST. 

Look  how  the  upland  plunges  into  cover, 

Green  where  the  pines  fade  sullenly  away. 
Wonderful  those  olive  depths !  and  wonderful,  more- 
over   

SECOND  TOURIST. 

The  red  dust  that  rises  in  a  suffocating  way. 

FIRST  TOURIST. 

Small  is  the  soul  that  cannot  soar  above  it, 

Cannot  but  cling  to  its  ever-kindred  clay : 
Better  be  yon  bird,  that  seems  to  breathe  and  love 
it  


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROAD 


307 


SECOND  TOURIST. 

Doubtless  a  hawk  or  some  other  bird  of  prey. 
Were  we,  like  him,  as  sure  of  a  dinner 

That  on  our  stomachs  would  comfortably  stay  ; 
Or  were  the  fried  ham  a  shade  or  two  just  thinner, 

That  must  confront  us  at  closing  of  the  day  : 
Then  might  you  sing  like  Theocritus  or  Virgil, 

Then  might  we  each  make  a  metrical  essay  ; 
But  verse  just  now  —  I  must  protest  and  urge  —  ill 

Fits  a  digestion  by  travel  led  astray. 

CHORUS  OF  PASSENGERS. 

Speed,  Yuba  Bill !  oh,  speed  us  to  our  dinner ! 
Speed  to  the  sunset  that  beckons  far  away. 

SECOND  TOURIST. 

William  of  Yuba,  O  Son  of  Nimshi,  hearken  ! 

Check  thy  profanity,  but  not  thy  chariot's  play. 
Tell  us,  O  William,  before  the  shadows  darken, 

Where,  and,  oh  !  how  we  shall  dine  ?  O  William, 
say  ! 

YUBA  BILL. 

It  ain't  my  fault,  nor  the  Kumpeney's  I  reckon, 
Ye  can't  get  ez  square  meal  ez  any  on  the  Bay, 

Up  at  yon  place,  whar  the  senset  'pears  to  beckon  — 1 
Ez  thet  sharp  allows  in  his  airy  sort  o'  way. 


308  AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROAD. 

Thar  woz  a  place  wor  yer  hash  ye  might  hev  wrestled, 
Kept  by  a  woman  ez  chipper  ez  a  jay  — 

Warm  in  her  breast  all  the  morning  sunshine  nestled ; 
Red  on  her  cheeks  all  the  evening's  sunshine  lay. 

SECOND  TOURIST. 

Praise  is  but  breath,  O  chariot  compeller ! 
Yet  of  that  hash  we  would  bid  you  farther  say. 

YUBA  BILL. 

Thar  woz  a  snipe  —  like  you,  a  fancy  tourist  — 
Kem  to  that  ranch  ez  if  to  make  a  stay, 

Ran  off  the  gal,  and  ruined  jist  the  purist 
Critter  that  lived  

STRANGER  {quietly). 

You  're  a  liar,  driver ! 

YUBA  bill  {reaching  for  his  revolver). 

Eh! 

Here  take  my  lines,  somebody  

CHORUS  OF  PASSENGERS. 

Hush,  boys  !  listen  I 
Inside  there 's  a  lady  !  Remember  !  No  affray  1 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROAD.  309 

YUBA  BILL. 

Ef  that  man  lives,  the  fault  ain't  mine  or  his'n. 

STRANGER. 

Wait  for  the  sunset  that  beckons  far  away, 

Then  —  as  you  will !   But,  meantime,  friends,  believe 
me, 

Nowhere  on  earth  lives  a  purer  woman  ;  nay, 
If  my  perceptions  do  surely  not  deceive  me, 

She  is  the  lady  we  have  inside  to-day. 

As  for  the  man  —  you  see  that  blackened  pine  tree, 

Up  which  the  green  vine  creeps  heavenward  away  ! 
He  was  that  scarred  trunk,  and  she  the  vine  that 
sweetly 

Clothed  him  with  life  again  and  lifted  

SECOND  TOURIST. 

Yes ;  but  pray 

How  know  you  this  ? 

STRANGER. 

She 's  my  wife. 

YUBA  BILL. 

The  h — 11  you  say ! 


THOMPSON  OF  ANGELS. 

It  is  the  story  of  Thompson  —  of  Thompson,  the  hero 
of  Angels. 

Frequently  drunk  was  Thompson,  but  always  polite  to 
the  stranger ; 

Light  and  free  was  the  touch  of  Thompson  upon  his 
revolver  ; 

Great  the  mortality  incident  on  that  lightness  and  free- 
dom. 

Yet  not  happy  or  gay  was  Thompson,  the  hero  of  An- 
gels ; 

Often  spoke  to  himself  in  accents  of  anguish  and  sorrow, 
«  Why  do  I  make  the  graves  of  the  frivolous  youth  who 
in  folly 

Thoughtlessly  pass  my  revolver,  forgetting  its  lightness 
and  freedom  ? 

"  Why  in  my  daily  walks  does  the  surgeon  drop  his  left 
eyelid, 

The  undertaker  smile,  and  the  sculptor  of  gravestone 
marbles 


THOMPSON  OF  ANGELS.  311 

Lean  on  his  chisel  and  gaze  ?  I  care  not  o'er  much  for 
attention  ; 

Simple  am  I  in  my  ways,  save  but  for  this  lightness  and 
freedom. " 

So  spake  that  pensive  man  —  this  Thompson,  the  hero 
of  Angels, 

Bitterly  smiled  to  himself,  as  he  strode  through  the 

chapparal  musing. 
"  Why,  O  why  ?  "  echoed  the  pines  in  the  dark  olive 

depth  far  resounding. 
"  Why,  indeed  ?  "  whispered  the  sage  brush  that  bent 

'neath  his  feet  non-elastic. 

Pleasant  indeed  was  that  morn  that  dawned  o'er  the  bar- 
room at  Angels, 

Where  in  their  manhood's  prime  was  gathered  the  pride 
of  the  hamlet. 

Six  "  took  sugar  in  theirs,"  and  nine  to  the  barkeeper 
lightly 

Smiled  as  they  said,  "  Well,  Jim,  you  can  give  us  our 
regular  fusil.  " 

Suddenly  as  the  gray  hawk  swoops  down  on  the  barn* 

yard,  alighting 
Where  pensively  picking  their  corn,  the  favorite  pullets 

are  gathered, 


312  THOMPSON  OF  ANGELS. 

So  in  that  festive  bar-room  dropped  Thompson,  the  hero 

of  Angels, 

Grasping  his  weapon  dread  with  his  pristine  lightness 
and  freedom. 

Never  a  word  he  spoke ;  divesting  himself  of  his  gar- 
ments, 

Danced  the  war-dance  of  the  playful  yet  truculent 
Modoc, 

Uttered  a  single  whoop,  and  then,  in  the  accents  of  chal- 
lenge, 

Spake  :  "  Oh,  behold  in  me  a  Crested  Jay  Hawk  of  the 
mountain/' 

Then  rose  a  pallid  man  —  a  man  sick  with  fever  and 
ague  ; 

Small  was  he,  and  his  step  was  tremulous,  weak,  and 
uncertain  ; 

Slowly  a  Derringer  drew,  and  covered  the  person  of 
Thompson  ; 

Said  in  his  feeblest  pipe,  "  I 'm  a  Bald-headed  Snipe  of 
the  Valley." 

As  on  its  native  plains  the  kangaroo,  startled  by  hunt- 
ers, 

Leaps  with  successive  bounds,  and  hurries  away  to  the 
thickets, 


THOMPSON  OF  ANGELS.  313 

So  leaped  the  Crested  Hawk,  and  quietly  hopping  behind 
him 

Ran,  and  occasionally  shot,  that  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the 
Valley. 

Vain  at  the  festive  bar  still  lingered  the  people  of  An- 
gels, 

Hearing  afar  in  the  woods  the  petulant  pop  of  the  pistol ; 
Never  again  returned  the  Crested  Jay  Hawk  of  the 
mountains, 

Never  again  was  seen  the  Bald-headed  Snipe  of  the  Val- 
ley. 

Yet  in  the  hamlet  of  Angels,  when  truculent  speeches 
are  uttered, 

When  bloodshed  and  life  alone  will  atone  for  some  tri- 
fling misstatement, 

Maidens  and  men  in  their  prime  recall  the  last  hero  of 
Angels, 

Think  of  and  vainly  regret  the  Bald-headed  Snipe  of 
the  Valley! 


ALNASCHAR. 

Here  's  yer  toy  balloons  !    All  sizes  ! 
Twenty  cents  for  that.    It  rises 
Jest  as  quick  as  that  'ere,  Miss, 
Twice  as  big.    Ye  see  it  is 
Some  more  fancy.    Make  it  square 
Fifty  for  'em  both.    That 's  fair. 

That 's  the  sixth  I 've  sold  since  noon. 
Trade 's  reviving.    Just  as  soon 
As  this  lot 's  worked  off,  I  '11  take 
Wholesale  figgers.    Make  or  break, 
That 's  my  motto  !    Then  I  '11  buy 
In  some  first-class  lottery 
One  half  ticket,  numbered  right  — 
As  I  dreamed  about  last  night. 

That  '11  fetch  it.    Don't  tell  me  ! 
When  a  man 's  in  luck,  you  see, 
All  things  help  him.    Every  chance 
Hits  him  like  an  avalanche. 
Here 's  your  toy  balloons,  Miss.    Eh  ? 


/ 


ALNASCHAR. 


You  won't  turn  your  face  this  way  ? 
Mebbe  you  '11  be  glad  some  day. 
With  that  clear  ten  thousand  prize 
This  'yer  trade  I  '11  drop,  and  rise 
Into  wholesale.    No  !    I  '11  take 
Stocks  in  Wall  Street.    Make  or  break, 
That 's  my  motto  !    With  my  luck, 
Where 's  the  chance  of  being  stuck  ? 
Call  it  sixty  thousand,  clear, 
Made  in  Wall  Street  in  one  year. 

Sixty  thousand  !    Umph  !    Let 's  see  ! 
Bond  and  mortgage  '11  do  for  me. 
Good  !    That  gal  that  passed  me  by 
Scornful  like  —  why,  mebbe  I 
Some  day  '11  hold  in  pawn  —  why  not  ? 
All  her  father's  prop.    She  '11  spot 
What 's  my  little  game,  and  see 
What  I 'm  after 's  her.    He  !  he  ! 

He  !  he  !    When  she  comes  to  sue  — 
Let 's  see  !    What 's  the  thing  to  do  ? 
Kick  her  ?    No  !    There 's  the  perliss  ! 
Sorter  throw  her  off  like  this. 
Hello!    Stop!    Help!    Murder!  Hey! 
There 's  my  whole  stock  got  away, 


ALNASCHAR. 


Kiting  on  the  house-tops !    Lost ! 
All  a  poor  man's  fortin  !    Cost  ? 
Twenty  dollars  !    Eh  !    What 's  this  ? 
Fifty  cents  !    God  bless  ye,  Miss  ! 


TELEMACHUS  VERSUS  MENTOR. 


Don't  mind  me,  I  beg  you,  old  fellow,  —  I  '11  do  very 

well  here  alone  ; 
You  must  not  be  kept  from  your  "  German  "  because 

I  've  dropped  in  like  a  stone  : 
Leave  all  ceremony  behind  you,  leave  all  thought  of 

aught  but  yourself  ; 
And  leave,  if  you  like,  the  Madeira,  and  a  dozen  cigars 

on  the  shelf. 

As  for  me,  you  will  say  to  your  hostess  —  well,  I 
scarcely  need  give  you  a  cue. 

Chant  my  praise  !  All  will  list  to  Apollo,  though  Mer- 
cury pipe  to  a  few. 

Say  just  what  you  please,  my  dear  boy  ;  there 's  more 
eloquence  lies  in  youth's  rash 

Outspoken  heart-impulse  than  ever  growled  under  this 
grizzling  mustache. 

Go,  don  the  dress  coat  of  our  tyrant — youth's  pan- 
oplied armor  for  fight, 

And  tie  the  white  neckcloth  that  rumples,  like  pleasure^ 
and  lasts  but  a  night. 


318       TELE  MA  CH  U S  VERSUS  MENTOR. 

And  pray  the  Nine  Gods  to  avert  you  what  time  the 

Three  Sisters  shall  frown, 
And  you  '11  lose  your  high-comedy  figure,  and  sit  more 

at  ease  in  your  gown. 

He 's  off!   There 's  his  foot  on  the  staircase.    By  Jove 

what  a  bound  !    Really  now 
Did  lever  leap  like  this  springald,  with  Love's  chaplet 

green  on  my  brow  ? 
Was  /such  an  ass  ?   No,  I  fancy.    Indeed  I  remember 

quite  plain 

A  gravity  mixed  with  my  transports,  a  cheerfulness 
softened  my  pain. 

He 's  gone  !    There 's  the  slam  of  his  cab  door,  there 's 

the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  wheels  ; 
And  while  he  the  light  toe  is  tripping  in  this  arm-chair 

I'll  tilt  up  my  heels. 
He 's  gone,  and  for  what  ?    For  a  tremor  from  a  waist 

like  a  teetotum  spun  ; 
For  a  rosebud  that 's  crumpled  by  many  before  it  is 

gathered  by  one. 

Is  there  naught  in  the  halo  of  youth  but  the  glow  of  a 

passionate  race  — 
'Midst  the  cheers  and  applause  of  a  crowd  —  to  the 

goal  of  a  beautiful  face  ? 


TELE  MA  CH  US  VERSUS  MENTOR.  319 


A  race  that  is  not  to  the  swift,  a  prize  that  no  merits 
enforce, 

But  is  won  by  some  faineant  youth,  who  shall  simply 
walk  over  the  course  ? 

Poor  boy  !  shall  I  shock  his  conceit  ?    When  he  talks 

of  her  cheek's  loveliness, 
Shall  I  say  't  was  the  air  of  the  room,  and  was  due  to 

carbonic  excess  ? 
That  when  waltzing  she  drooped  on  his  breast,  and  the 

veins  of  her  eyelids  grew  dim, 
'T  was  oxygen's  absence  she  felt,  but  never  the  presence 

of  him  ? 

Shall  I  tell  him  first  love  is  a  fraud,  a  weakling  that 's 

strangled  in  birth, 
Recalled  with  perfunctory  tears,  but  lost  in  unsanctified 

mirth  ? 

Or  shall  I  go  bid  him  believe  in  all  womankind's  charm, 
and  forget 

In  the  light  ringing  laugh  of  the  world  the  rattlesnake's 
gay  Castanet  ? 

Shall  I  tear  out  a  leaf  from  my  heart,  from  that  book 

that  forever  is  shut 
On  the  past  ?   Shall  I  speak  of  my  first  love  —  Augusta 

—  my  Lalage  ?  But 


320       TELEMACHUS  VERSUS  MENTOR. 


I  forget.    Was  it  really  Augusta  ?   No.    'T  was  Lucy! 

No.    Mary !    No.    Di ! 
Never  mind !  they  were  all  first  and  faithless,  and  yet 

—  I 've  forgotten  just  why. 

No,  no  !    Let  him  dream  on  and  ever.    Alas !  he  will 

waken  too  soon ; 
And  it  doesn't  look  well  for  October  to  always  be 

preaching  at  June. 
Poor  boy  !   All  his  fond  foolish  trophies  pinned  yonder 

—  a  bow  from  her  hair, 

A  few  billets-doux,  invitations,  and  — what's  this  ?  My 
name,  I  declare ! 

Humph  !  "  You  '11  come,  for  I  Ve  got  you  a  prize,  with 
beauty  and  money  no  end  ; 

You  know  her,  I  think ;  't  was  on  dit  she  once  was  en- 
gaged to  your  friend  ; 

But  she  says  that 's  all  over."  Ah,  is  it?  Sweet  Ethel ! 
incomparable  maid  ! 

Or  —  what  if  the  thing  were  a  trick  ?  —  this  letter  so 
freely  displayed !  — 

My  opportune  presence  !  No  !  nonsense !   Will  nobody 

answer  the  bell  ? 
Call  a  cab!    Half  past  ten.    Not  too  late  yet.  Oh, 

Ethel !    Why  don't  you  go !    Well  ? 


TELE  MA  CH  U S  VERSUS  MENTOR.  321 

"  Master  said  you  would  wait  —  "   Hang  your  master  ! 

"  Have  I  ever  a  message  to  send  ?  " 
Yes,  tell  him  I  ve  gone  to  the  German  to  dance  with 

the  friend  of  his  friend. 
21 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


Above  the  bones 
St.  Ursula  owns, 
And  those  of  the  virgins  she  chaperones  ; 
Above  the  boats, 
And  the  bridge  that  floats, 
And  the  Rhine  and  the  steamers'  smoky  throats ; 
Above  the  chimneys  and  quaint-tiled  roofs, 
Above  the  clatter  of  wheels  and  hoofs  ; 
Above  Newmarket's  open  space, 
Above  that  consecrated  place 
Where  the  genuine  bones  of  the  Magi  seen  are, 
And  the  dozen  shops  of  the  real  Farina ; 
Higher  than  even  old  JSbhestrasse, 
Whose  houses  threaten  the  timid  passer : 
Above  them  all, 
Through  scaffolds  tall 
xxiid  spires  like  delicate  limbs  in  splinters, 
The  great  Cologne's 
Cathedral  stones 
Climb  through  the  storms  of  eight  hundred  winters. 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


Unfinished  there, 

In  high  mid-air 
The  towers  halt  like  a  broken  prayer ; 

Through  years  belated, 

Unconsummated, 
The  hope  of  its  architect  quite  frustrated. 

Its  very  youth 

They  say,  forsooth, 
With  a  quite  improper  purpose  mated ; 

And  every  stone 

With  a  curse  of  its  own 
Instead  of  that  sermon  Shakespeare  stated, 

Since  the  day  its  choir, 

Which  all  admire, 
By  Cologne's  Archbishop  was  consecrated 

Ah  !  that  was  a  day, 

One  well  might  say, 
To  be  marked  with  the  largest,  whitest  stone 
To  be  found  in  the  towers  of  all  Cologne  ! 

Along  the  Rhine, 

From  old  Rheinstein, 
The  people  flowed  like  their  own  good  wine. 

From  Rudesheim, 

And  Geisenheim, 
And  every  spot  that  is  known  to  rhyme ; 


324  A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


From  the  famed  Cat's  Castle  of  St.  Goarshausen, 
To  the  pictured  roofs  of  Assmannshausen, 
And  down  the  track. 
From  quaint  Schwalbach 
To  the  clustering  tiles  of  Bacharach ; 
From  Bingen,  hence 
To  old  Coblentz  : 
From  every  castellated  crag, 
Where  the  robber  chieftains  kept  their  "  swag/* 
The  folk  flowed  in,  and  Ober-Cassel 
Shone  with  the  pomp  of  knight  and  vassal ; 
And  pouring  in  from  near  and  far, 
As  the  Rhine  to  its  bosom  draws  the  Ahr, 
Or  takes  the  arm  of  the  sober  Mosel, 
So  in  Cologne,  knight,  ^squire,  and  losel, 
Choked  up  the  city's  gates  with  men 
From  old  St.  Stephen  to  Zint  Mar j 'en. 

What  had  they  come  to  see  ?    Ah  me  ! 
I  fear  no  glitter  of  pageantry, 

Nor  sacred  zeal 

For  Church's  weal, 
Nor  faith  in  the  virgins'  bones  to  heal ; 

Nor  childlike  trust  in  frank  confession 
Drew  those,  who,  dyed  in  deep  transgression, 

Still  in  each  nest 

On  every  crest 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


Kept  stolen  goods  in  their  possession  ; 

But  only  their  gout 
For  something  new. 
More  rare  than  the  "  roast "  of  a  wandering  Jew  ; 
Or  —  to  be  exact  — 
To  see  —  in  fact  — 
A  Christian  soul,  in  the  very  act 
Of  being  damned,  secundum  artem, 
By  the  devil,  before  a  soul  could  part  'em. 

For  a  rumor  had  flown 
Throughout  Cologne, 
That  the  church,  in  fact,  was  the  devil's  own ; 
That  its  architect 
(Being  long  "  suspect  ") 
Had  confessed  to  the  bishop  that  he  had  wreckt 
Not  only  his  own  soul,  but  had  lost 
The  very  first  Christian  soul  that  crossed 
The  sacred  threshold  ;  and  all,  in  fine, 
For  that  very  beautiful  design 

Of  the  wonderful  choir 
They  were  pleased  to  admire. 
And  really,  he  must  be  allowed  to  say  — 
To  speak  in  a  purely  business  way  — 
v   That,  taking  the  ruling  market  prices 
Of  souls  and  churches,  in  such  a  crisis 


326  A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


It  would  be  shown  — 
And  his  Grace  must  own  — 
It  was  really  a  bargain  for  Cologne ! 

Such  was  the  tale 

That  turned  cheeks  pale 
With  the  thought  that  the  enemy  might  prevail, 

And  the  church  doors  snap 

With  a  thunder-clap 
On  a  Christian  soul  in  that  devil's  trap. 

But  a  wiser  few, 

Who  thought  that  they  knew 
Cologne's  Archbishop,  replied,  "  Pooh,  pooh ! 

Just  watch  him  and  wait, 

And  as  sure  as  fate, 
You  '11  find  that  the  Bishop  will  give  checkmate." 

One  here  might  note 

How  the  popular  vote, 
As  shown  in  all  legends  and  anecdote, 

Declares  that  a  breach 

Of  trust  to  o'erreach 
The  devil  is  something  quite  proper  for  each. 

And,  really,  if  you 

Give  the  devil  his  due 
In  spite  of  the  proverb  —  it 's  something  you  '11  rue. 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE.  327 

But  to  lie  and  deceive  him, 

To  use  and  to  leave  him, 
From  Job  up  to  Faust  is  the  way  to  receive  him, 

Though  no  one  has  heard 

It  ever  averred 
That  the  "  Father  of  Lies  "  ever  yet  broke  his  word, 

But  has  left  this  position, 

In  every  tradition, 
To  be  taken  alone  by  the  "  truth-loving  "  Christian  ! 

Bom  !  from  the  tower ! 

It  is  the  hour  ! 
The  host  pours  in,  in  its  pomp  and  power 

Of  banners  and  pyx, 

And  high  crucifix, 
And  crosiers  and  other  processional  sticks, 

And  no  end  of  Marys 

In  quaint  reliquaries  ; 
To  gladden  the  souls  of  all  true  antiquaries ; 

And  an  Osculum  Pads  — 

(A  myth  to  the  masses 
Who  trusted  their  bones  more  to  mail  and  cuirasses), 

All  borne  by  the  throng 

Who  are  marching  along 
To  the  square  of  the  Dom  with  processional  song, 

With  the  flaring  of  dips, 

And  bending  of  hips, 
And  the  chanting  of  hundred  perfunctory  lips ; 


328 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


And  some  good  little  boys 
Who  had  come  up  from  Neuss 

And  the  Quirinuskircke  to  show  off  their  voice : 
All  march  to  the  square 
Of  the  great  Dom,  and  there 

File  right  and  left,  leaving  alone  and  quite  bare 
A  covered  sedan, 
Containing —  so  ran 

The  rumor  —  the  victim  to  take  off  the  ban. 

They  have  left  it  alone, 

They  have  sprinkled  each  stone 
Of  the  porch  with  a  sanctified  Eau  de  Cologne, 

Guaranteed  in  this  case 

To  disguise  every  trace 
Of  a  sulphurous  presence  in  that  sacred  place. 

Two  Carmelites  stand 

On  the  right  and  left  hand 
Of  the  covered  sedan  chair,  to  wait  the  command 

Of  the  prelate  to  throw 

Up  the  cover  and  show 
The  form  of  the  victim  in  terror  below. 

There  's  a  pause  and  a  prayer, 

Then  the  signal,  and  there  — 
Is  a  woman  !  —  by  all  that  is  good  and  is  fair ! 


A  woman  !  and  known 

To  them  all  —  one  must  own 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


329 


Too  well  known  to  the  many,  to  day  to  be  shown 

As  a  martyr,  or  e'en 

As  a  Christian  !    A  queen 
Of  pleasaunce  and  revel,  of  glitter  and  sheen  ; 

So  bad  that  the  worst 

Of  Cologne  spake  up  first, 
And  declared 't  was  an  outrage  to  suffer  one  curst, 

And  already  a  fief 

Of  the  Satanic  chief, 
To  martyr  herself  for  the  Church's  relief. 

But  in  vain  fell  their  sneer 

On  the  mob,  who  I  fear 
On  the  whole  felt  a  strong  disposition  to  cheer, 

A  woman  !  and  there 

She  stands  in  the  glare 
Of  the  pitiless  sun  and  their  pitying  stare  — 

A  woman  still  young, 

With  garments  that  clung 
To  a  figure,  though  wasted  with  passion  and  wrung 

With  remorse  and  despair, 

Yet  still  passing  fair, 
With  jewels  and  gold  in  her  dark  shining  hair, 

And  cheeks  that  are  faint 

'Neath  her  dyes  and  her  paint  — 
A  woman  most  surely  —  but  hardly  a  saint ! 


330  A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


She  moves.    She  has  gone 

From  their  pity  and  scorn ; 

She  has  mounted  alone 

The  first  step  of  stone, 
And  the  high  swinging  doors  she  wide  open  has  thrown, 

Then  pauses  and  turns, 

As  the  altar  blaze  burns 
On  her  cheeks,  and  with  one  sudden  gesture  she  spurns 

Archbishop  and  Prior, 

Knight,  ladye,  and  friar, 
And  her  voice  rings  out  high  from  the  vault  of  the  choir. 

"  Oh,  men  of  Cologne ! 

What  I  was  ye  have  known  ; 
What  I  am,  as  I  stand  here,  One  knoweth  alone. 

If  it  be  but  His  will 

I  shall  pass  from  Him  still, 
Lost,  curst,  and  degraded,  I  reckon  no  ill ; 

If  still  by  that  sign 

Of  His  anger  divine 
One  soul  shall  be  saved,  He  hath  blessed  more  than  mine. 

Oh,  men  of  Cologne  ! 

Stand  forth  if  ye  own 
A  faith  like  to  this,  or  more  fit  to  atone, 

And  take  ye  my  place, 

And  God  give  you  grace 
To  stand  and  confront  Him,  like  me,  face  to  face !  " 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


331 


She  paused.    Yet  aloof 

They  all  stand.    No  reproof 
Breaks  the  silence  that  fills  the  celestial  roof. 

One  instant  —  no  more  — 

She  halts  at  the  door, 
Then  enters  !  .  .  .  A  flood  from  the  roof  to  the  floor 

Fills  the  church  rosy  red. 

She  is  gone  ! 

But  instead, 

Who  is  this  leaning  forward  with  glorified  head 

And  hands  stretched  to  save? 

Sure  this  is  no  slave 
Of  the  Powers  of  Darkness,  with  aspect  so  brave ! 

They  press  to  the  door, 

But  too  late  !    All  is  o'er. 
Naught  remains  but  a  woman's  form  prone  on  the  floor, 

But  the}7  still  see  a  trace 

Of  that  glow  in  her  face 
That  they  saw  in  the  light  of  the  altar's  high  blaze 

On  the  image  that  stands 

With  the  babe  in  its  hands 
Enshrined  in  the  churches  of  all  Christian  lands. 


A  Te  Deum  sung, 
A  censer  high  swung, 


332 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 


With  praise,  benediction,  and  incense  wide-flung, " 

Proclaim  that  the  curse 

Is  removed  —  and  no  worse 
Is  the  Dom  for  the  trial  —  in  fact,  the  reverse; 

For  instead  of  their  losing 

A  soul  in  abusing 
The  Evil  One's  faith,  they  gained  one  of  his  choosing. 

Thus  the  legend  is  told  : 

You  will  find  in  the  old 
Vaulted  aisles  of  the  Dom,  stiff  in  marble  or  cold 

In  iron  and  brass, 

In  gown  and  cuirass, 
The  knights,  priests,  and  bishops  who  came  to  that  Mass  ; 

And  high  o'er  the  rest, 

With  her  babe  at  her  breast, 
The  image  of  Mary  Madonna  the  blest. 

But  you  look  round  in  vain, 

On  each  high  pictured  pane, 
For  the  woman  most  worthy  to  walk  in  her  train. 

Yet,  standing  to-day 
O'er  the  dust  and  the  clay, 
'Midst  the  ghosts  of  a  life  that  has  long  passed  away, 
With  the  slow-sinking  sun 
Looking  softly  upon 


A  LEGEND  OF  COLOGNE. 

That  stained-glass  procession,  I  scarce  miss  the  one 

That  it  does  not  reveal, 

For  I  know  and  I  feel 
That  these  are  but  shadows  —  the  woman  was  real ! 


f 


OFF  SCARBOROUGH. 

SEPTEMBER,  1779. 


"  Have  a  care  !  "  the  bailiffs  cried 
From  their  cockleshell  that  lay 
Off  the  frigate's  yellow  side, 
Tossing  on  Scarborough  Bay, 
While  the  forty  sail  it  convoyed  on  a  bowline  stretched 
away  ; 

"  Take  your  chicks  beneath  your  wings, 
And  your  claws  and  feathers  spread, 
Ere  the  hawk  upon  them  springs  — 
Ere  around  Flamborough  Head 
Swoops  Paul  Jones,  the  Yankee  falcon,  with  his  beak 
and  talons  red." 


ii. 

How  we  laughed  !  —  my  mate  and  I  — 
On  the  Bon  Homme  Richard's  deck,  — 

As  we  saw  that  convoy  fly 

Like  a  snow  squall,  till  each  fleck 


OFF  SCARBOROUGH. 


335 


Melted  in  the  twilight  shadows  of  the  coast-line,  speck 
by  speck  ; 
And  scuffling  back  to  shore 

The  Scarborough  bailiffs  sped, 
As  the  Richard,  with  a  roar 

Of  her  cannon  round  the  Head, 
Crossed  her  royal  yards  and  signalled  to  her  consort : 
"  Chase  ahead  !  " 

in. 

But  the  devil  seize  Landais 

In  that  consort  ship  of  France  !' 
For  the  shabby,  lubber  way 
That  he  worked  the  Alliance 
In  the  offing,  —  nor  a  broadside  fired  save  to  our  mis- 
chance !  — 
When  tumbling  to  the  van, 

With  his  battle-lanterns  set, 
Rose  the  burly  Englishman 

'Gainst  our  hull  as  black  as  jet  — 
Rode  the  yellow-sided  Serapis,  and  all  alone  we  met ! 

IV. 

All  alone  —  though  far  at  sea 

Hung  his  consort,  rounding  to ; 
All  alone  —  though  on  our  lee 

Fought  our  Pallas,  staunch  and  true ! 


336 


OFF  SCARBOROUGH. 


For  the  first  broadside  around  us  both  a  smoky  circle 

drew : 

And,  like  champions  in  a  ring, 

There  was  cleared  a  little  space  — 
Scarce  a  cable's  length  to  swing  — 
Ere  we  grappled  in  embrace, 
All  the  world  shut  out  around  us,  and  we  only  face  to 
face  ! 

v. 

Then  awoke  all  hell  below 

From  that  broadside,  doubly  curst, 
For  our  long  eighteen s  in  row 

Leaped  the  first  discharge  and  burst ! 
And  on  deck  our  men  came  pouring,  fearing  their  own 
guns  the  worst. 
And  as  dumb  we  lay,  till,  through 
Smoke  and  flame  and  bitter  cry, 
Hailed  the  Sera  pis  —  44  Have  you 
Struck  your  colors  ?  "    Our  reply, 
n  We  have  not  yet  begun  to  fight!  "  went  shouting  to 
the  sky ! 

VI. 

Roux  of  Brest,  old  fisher,  lay 

Like  a  herring  gasping  here ; 
Bunker  of  Nantucket  Bay, 

Blown  from  out  the  port,  dropped  sheer 


OFF  SCARBOROUGH. 


337 


Half  a  cable's  length  to  leeward ;  yet  we  faintly  raised 
a  cheer 
As  with  his  own  right  hand, 
Our  Commodore  made  fast 
The  foeman's  head-gear  and 
The  Richard's  mizzen-mast, 
And  in  that  death-lock  clinging  held  us  there  from  first 
to  last  ! 

VII. 

Yet  the  foeman,  gun  on  gun, 

Through  the  Richard  tore  a  road  — 
With  his  gunners'  rammers  run 
Through  our  ports  at  every  load, 
Till  clear  the  blue  beyond  us  through  our  yawning  tim- 
bers showed. 
Yet  with  entrails  torn  we  clung 
Like  the  Spartan  to  our  fox, 
•  And  on  deck  no  coward  tongue 
Wailed  the  enemy's  hard  knocks, 
Nor  that  all  below  us  trembled  like  a  wreck  upon  the 
rocks. 

VIII. 

Then  a  thought  rose  in  my  brain, 
As  through  Channel  mists  the  sun. 

From  our  tops  a  fire  like  rain 
Drove  below  decks  every  one 
J  22 


\ 


338  OFF  SCARBOROUGH. 

Of  the  enemy's  ship's  company  to  hide  or  work  a  gun, 
And  that  thought  took  shape  as  I 
On  the  Richard's  yard  lay  out, 
That  a  man  might  do  and  die, 
If  the  doing  brought  about 
Freedom  for  his  home  and  country,  and  his  messmates' 
cheering  shout ! 

IX. 

Then  I  crept  out  in  the  dark 

Till  I  hung  above  the  hatch 
Of  the  Serapis  —  a  mark 

For  her  marksmen  !  —  with  a  match 
And  a  hand-grenade,  but  lingered  just  a  moment  more 
to  snatch 
One  last  look  at  sea  and  sky ! 

At  the  lighthouse  on  the  hill ! 
At  the  harvest-moon  on  high ! 
And  our  pine  flag  fluttering  still ; 
Then  turned  and  down  her  yawning  throat  I  launched 
that  devil's  pill ! 

x. 

Then  a  blank  was  all  between 

As  the  flames  around  me  spun  ! 
Had  I  fired  the  magazine  ? 

Was  the  victory  lost  or  won  ? 


OFF  SCARBOROUGH.  339 

Nor  knew  I  till  the  fight  was  o'er  but  half  my  work 
was  done  : 
For  I  lay  among  the  dead 

In  the  cockpit  of  our  foe, 
With  a  roar  above  my  head  — 
Till  a  trampling  to  and  fro, 
And  a  lantern  showed  my  mate's  face,  and  1  knew 
what  now  you  know ! 


MASTER  JOHNNY'S  NEXT-DOOR  NEIGHBOR. 


It  was  spring  the  first  time  that  I  saw  her,  for  her  papa 

and  mamma  moved  in 
Next  door,  just  as  skating  was  over,  and  marbles  about 

to  begin, 

For  the  fence  in  our  back-yard  was  broken,  and  I  saw 

as  I  peeped  through  the  slat, 
There  were  "  Johnny  Jump-ups  "  all  around  her,  and  I 

knew  it  was  spring  just  by  that. 

I  never  knew  whether  she  saw  me  —  for  she  didn't  say 

nothing  to  me, 
But  "  Ma  !  here 's  a  slat  in  the  fence  broke,  and  the  boy 

that  is  next  door  can  see." 
But  the  next  day  I  climbed  on  our  wood-shed,  as  you 

know  mamma  says  I 've  a  right, 
And  she  calls  out,  "  Well,  peekin  is  manners  !  "  and  I 

answered  her,  "  Sass  is  perlite  !  " 

But  I  was  n't  a  bit  mad,  no,  Papa,  and  to  prove  it,  the 

very  next  day, 
When  she  ran  past  our  fence  in  the  morning  I  happened 

to  get  in  her  way, 


MASTER  JOHNNY'S  NEIGHBOR.  341 


For  you  know  I  am  "  chunked  "  and  clumsy,  as  she  says 

are  all  boys  of  my  size, 
And  she  nearly  upset  me,  she  did,  Pa,  and  laughed  till 

tears  came  in  her  eyes. 

And  then  we  were  friends  from  that  moment,  for  I  knew 

that  she  told  Kitty  Sage, 
And  she  was  n't  a  girl  that  would  flatter,  "  that  she 

thought  I  was  tall  for  my  age." 
And  I  gave  her  four  apples  that  evening,  and  took  her 

to  ride  on  my  sled, 
And  —  "  What  am  I  telling  you  this  for  ?  "  Why,  Papa, 

my  neighbour  is  dead  ! 

You  don't  hear  one-half  I  am  saying  —  I  really  do  think 
it 's  too  bad ! 

Why,  you  might  have  seen  crape  on  her  door-knob,  and 

noticed  to-day  I 've  been  sad. 
And  they 've  got  her  a  coffin  of  rosewood,  and  they  say 

they  have  dressed  her  in  white, 
And  I 've  never  once  looked  through  the  fence,  Pa,  since 

she  died  —  at  eleven  last  night. 

And  Ma  says  it 's  decent  and  proper,  as  I  was  her  neigh- 
bor and  friend, 

That  I  should  go  there  to  the  funeral,  and  she  thinks 
that  you  ought  to  attend ; 


342        MASTER  JOHNNYS  NEIGHBOR. 

But  I  am  so  clumsy  and  awkward,  I  know  I  shall  be  in 
the  way, 

And  suppose  they  should  speak  to  me,  Papa,  I  would  n't 
know  just  what  to  say. 

So  I  think  I  will  get  up  quite  early,  I  know  I  sleep  late, 
but  I  know 

I  '11  be  sure  to  wake  up  if  our  Bridget  pulls  the  string 

that  I  '11  tie  to  my  toe  ; 
And  I  all  crawl  through  the  fence  and  I  '11  gather  the 

"  Johnny  Jump-ups  "  as  they  grew 
Round  her  feet  the  first  day  that  I  saw  her,  and,  Papa, 

I  '11  give  them  to  you. 

For  you  're  a  big  man,  and  you  know,  Pa,  can  come  and 

go  just  where  you  choose, 
And  you  '11  take  the  flowers  in  to  her,  and  surely  they  '11 

never  refuse  ; 

But,  Papa,  don't  say  they're  from  Johnny;  they  won't 

understand,  don't  you  see  ? 
But  just  lay  them  down  on  her  bosom,  and,  Papa,  she  '11 

know  they  're  from  Me. 


MISS  EDITH'S  MODEST  REQUEST. 

My  papa  knows  you,  and  he  says  you  're  a  man  who 

makes  reading  for  books  ; 
But  I  never  read  nothing  you  wrote,  nor  did  papa  — 

I  know  by  his  looks. 
So  I  guess  you  're  like  me  when  I  talk,  and  I  talk,  and 

I  talk  all  the  day, 
And  they  only  say :  "  Do  stop  that  child !  "  or,  "  Nurse, 

take  Miss  Edith  away." 

But  papa  said  if  I  was  good  I  could  ask  you  —  alone  by 
myself  — 

If  you  would  n't  write  me  a  book  like  that  little  one  up 
on  the  shelf. 

I  don't  mean  the  pictures,  of  course,  for  to  make  them 

you 've  got  to  be  smart ; 
But  the  reading  that  runs  all  around  them,  you  know 

—  just  the  easiest  part. 

You  need  n't  mind  what  it 's  about,  for  no  one  will  see  it 
but  me 

And  Jane  —  that 's  my  nurse  - —  and  John  —  he 's  the 
coachman  — just  only  us  three. 


344      MISS  EDITH'S  MODEST  REQUEST. 


You  're  to  write  of  a  bad  little  girl,  that  was  wicked 

and  bold  and  all  that ; 
And  then  you  are  to  write,  if  you  please,  something 

good  —  very  good  —  of  a  cat ! 

This  cat  she  was  virtuous  and  meek,  and  kind  to  her 
parents  and  mild, 

And  careful  and  neat  in  her  ways,  though  her  mis- 
tress was  such  a  bad  child ; 

And  hours  she  would  sit  and  would  gaze  when  her  mis- 
tress —  that 's  me  —  was  so  bads 

And  blink,  just  as  if  she  would  say  :  "  O  Edith  !  you 
make  my  heart  sad." 

And  yet,  you  would  scarcely  believe  it,  that  beautiful 

angelic  cat 

Was  blamed  by  the  servants  for  stealing  whatever,  they 

said,  she 'd  get  at. 
And  when  John  drank  my  milk  —  don't  you  tell  me  !  — 

I  know  just  the  way  it  was  done  — 
They  said 't  was  the  cat  —  and  she  sitting  and  washing 

her  face  in  the  sun  ! 

And  then  there  was  Dick,  my  canary.    When  I  left  its 

cage  open  one  day, 
They  all  made  believe  that  she  ate  it,  though  I  know 

that  the  bird  flew  away. 


MISS  EDIT  IPS  MODEST  REQUEST.  345 


And  why  ?   Just  because  she  was  playing  with  a  feather 

she  found  on  the  floor, 
As  if  cats  could  n't  play  with  a  feather  without  people 

thinking  't  was  more. 

Why,  once  we  were  romping  together,  when  I  knocked 

down  a  vase  from  the  shelf, 
That  cat  was  as  grieved  and  distressed  as  if  she  had 

done  it  herself ; 
And  she  walked  away  sadly  and  hid  herself,  and  never 

came  out  until  tea  — 
So  they  say,  for  they  sent  me  to  bed,  and  she  never 

came  even  to  me. 

No  matter  whatever  happened,  it  was  laid  at  the  door 
of  that  cat. 

Why,  once  when  I  tore  my  apron  —  she  was  wrapped 

in  it,  and  I  called  "  Rat !  "  — 
Why,  they  blamed  that  on  her.    I  shall  never  —  no, 

not  to  my  dying  day  — 
Forget  the  pained  look  that  she  gave  me  when  they 

slapped  me  and  took  me  away. 

Of  course,  you  know  just  what  comes  next,  when  a 

child  is  as  lovely  as  that : 
She  wasted  quite  slowly  away  —  it  was  goodness  was 

killing  that  cat. 


346      MISS  EDITH'S  MODEST  BEQUEST. 


I  know  it  was  nothing  she  ate,  for  her  taste  was  exceed- 
ingly nice ; 

But  they  said  she  stole  Bobby's  ice  cream,  and  caught 
a  bad  cold  from  the  ice. 

And  you  '11  promise  to  make  me  a  book  like  that  little 
one  up  on  the  shelf, 

And  you  '11  call  her  "  Naomi,"  because  it 's  a  name  that 
she  just  gave  herself  ; 

For  she 'd  scratch  at  my  door  in  the  morning,  and  when- 
ever I 'd  call  out,  "  Who 's  there  ?  " 

She  would  answer,  "  Naomi !  Naomi !  "  like  a  Christian 
I  vow  and  declare. 

And  you'll  put  me  and  her  in  a  book.    And,  mind, 

you  're  to  say  I  was  bad  ; 
And  I  might  have  been  badder  than  that  but  for  the 

example  I  had. 
And  you  '11  say  that  she  was  a  Maltese,  and  —  what 's 

that  you  asked  ?    "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 
Why,  please,  sir,  there  ain't  any  cat  I    You  're  to  make 

one  up  out  of  your  head  ! 


MISS  EDITH  MAKES  IT  PLEASANT  FOR 
BROTHER  JACK. 


"  Crying  !  "  of  course  I  am  crying,  and  I  guess  you 

would  be  crying  too 
If  people  were  telling  such  stories  as  they  tell  about  me, 

about  you. 

Oh  yes,  you  can  laugh,  if  you  want  to,  and  smoke  as  yon 

did  n't  care  how, 
And  get  your  brains  softened  like  uncle's.  —  Dr.  Jones 

says  you  're  gettin'  it  now. 

Why  don't  you  say  "stop!  "  to  Miss  Ilsey  ?  she  cries 

twice  as  much  as  I  do, 
And  she's  older  and  cries  just  from  meanness  —  for  a 

ribbon  or  anything  new. 
Ma  says  it 's  her  "  sensitive  nature."   Oh  my  !  No.  I 

shan't  stop  my  talk ! 
And  I  don't  want  no  apples  nor  candy,  and  I  don't  want 

to  go  take  a  walk  ! 

I  know  why  you  're  mad  ?   Yes,  I  do,  now  !  You  think 

that  Miss  Ilsey  likes  you, 

And  I 've  heard  her  repeatedly  call  you  the  bold-facest 

boy  that  she  knew  ; 


348     MISS  EDITH  MAKES  IT  PLEASANT. 

And  she 'd  "  like  to  know  where  you  learnt  manners." 

Oh  yes  !    Kick  the  table  —  that 's  right ! 
Spill  the  ink  on  my  dress,  and  go  then  round  telling 

Ma  that  I  look  like  a  fright ! 

What  stories  ?     Pretend  you  don't  know  that  the}'  're 

saying  I  broke  off  the  match 
'Twixt  old  Money-grubber  and  Mary,  by  saying  she 

called  him  "  Crosspatch  !  " 
When  the  only  allusion  I  made  him  about  sister  Mary 
►  was  she 

Cared  more  for  his  cash  than  his  temper,  and  you  know, 

Jack,  you  said  that  to  me. 

And  it 's  true  !    But  it 's  me,  and  I 'm  scolded,  and  Pa 

says  if  I  keep  on  I  might 
By  and  by  get  my  name  in  the  papers  !    Who  cares  ? 

Why,  't  was  only  last  night 
I  was  reading  how  Pa  and  the  sheriff  were  selling  some 

lots,  and  it 's  plain 
If  it 's  awful  to  be  in  the  papers  why  Papa  would  go 

and  complain. 

You  think  it  ain't  true  about  Ilsey  ?     Well,  I  guess  I 

know  girls — and  I  say 
There 's  nothing  I  see  about  Ilsey  to  show  she  likes  you 

anyway  I 


MISS  EDITH  MAKES  IT  PLEASANT.  349 

I  know  what  it  means  when  a  girl  who  has  called  her 

cat  after  one  boy 
Goes  and  changes  its  name  to  another's.    And  she 's 

done  it  —  and  I  wish  you  joy  ! 


MISS  EDITH  MAKES  ANOTHER  FRIEND. 


Oh,  you  're  the  girl  lives  on  the  corner  ?    Come  in  —  if 

you  want  to  —  come  quick  ! 
There 's  no  one  but  me  in  the  house  and  the  cook  —  but 

she 's  only  a  stick. 
Don't  try  the  front  way  but  come  over  the  fence  — 

through  the  window  —  that 's  how. 
Don't  mind  the  big  dog  —  he  won't  bite  you  — just  see 

him  obey  me  !  there  now ! 

What  98  your  name,  "  Mary  Ellen  ? "     How  funny, 

mine 's  Edith  —  it 's  nicer,  you  see, 
But  yours  does  for  you,  for  you  're  plainer,  though 

maybe  you  're  gooder  than  me, 
For  Jack  says  I 'm  sometimes  a  devil,  but  Jack,  of  all 

folks,  need  n't  talk, 
For  I  don't  call  the  seamstress  an  angel  'til  Ma  says  the 

poor  thing  must  u  walk." 

Come  in  !     It 's  quite  dark  in  the  parlor,  for  sister  will 

keep  the  blinds  down, 
For  you  know  her  complexion  is  sallow  like  yours,  but 

she  is  n't  as  brown  ; 


MISS  EDITH  MAKES  ANOTHER  FRIEND.  851 

Though  Jack  says  that  is  n't  the  reason  she  likes  to  sit 

here  with  Jim  Moore. 
Do  you  think  that  he  meant  that  she  kissed  him  ?  Would 

you  —  if  your  lips  was  n't  sore  ? 

If  you  like,  you  can  try  our  piano.   'T  aint  ours.  A  man 
left  it  here 

To  rent  by  the  month,  although  Ma  says  he  has  n't  been 

paid  for  a  year. 
Sister  plays  —  oh,  such  fine  variations  !  —  why,  I  once 

heard  a  gentleman  say 
That  she  did  n't  mind  that  for  the  music  —  in  fact,  it  was 

just  in  her  way  ! 

Ain't  I  funny  ?   And  yet  it 's  the  queerest  of  all,  that 

whatever  I  say, 
One-half  of  the  folks  die  a-laughing,  and  the  rest  they 

all  look  t'other  way: 
And  some  say,  "  That  child ! "  Do  they  ever  say  that  to 

such  people  as  you  ? 
Though  may  be  you  're  naturally  silly,  and  that  makes 

your  eyes  so  askew. 

Now  stop  —  don't  you  dare  to  be  crying !   Just  as  sure 

as  you  live,  if  you  do, 
I  '11  call  in  my  big  dog  to  bite  you,  and  I  '11  make  my 

Papa  kill  you  too  ! 


352    MISS  EDITH  MAKES  ANOTHER  FRIEND. 

And  then  where  '11  you  be  ?    So  play  pretty.    There 's 

my  doll,  and  a  nice  piece  of  cake. 
You  don't  want  it  —  you  think  it  is  poison  !    Then  Pit 

eat  it,  dear,  just  for  your  sake ! 


ON  THE  LANDING. 


AN  IDYL   OF  THE  BALUSTERS. 
Bobby,  cetat.  3-J.  Johnny,  cetat.  4}. 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  they 've  put  us  in  that  back  room, 

Up  in  the  attic,  close  against  the  sky, 

And  made  believe  our  nursery 's  a  cloak-room  ? 

Do  you  know  why  ? 

JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  Sammy's  mother 
What  Ma  thinks  horrid,  'cause  he  bunged  my  eye, 
Eats  an  ice  cream,  down  there,  like  any  other  — 
No  more  don't  I ! 

BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  Nurse  says  it  is  n't  manners 
For  you  and  me  to  ask  folks  twice  for  pie, 
And  no  one  hits  that  man  with  two  bananas  ? 

Do  you  know  why  ? 

23 


354 


ON  THE  LANDING. 


JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  girl,  whose  dress  is 
Off  of  her  shoulders,  don't  catch  cold  and  die, 
When  you  and  me  gets  croup  when  we  undresses  ! 

No  more  don't  I ! 

BOBBY. 

Perhaps  she  ain't  as  good  as  you  and  I  is, 
And  God  don't  want  her  up  there  in  the  sky, 
And  lets  her  live  —  to  come  in  just  when  pie  is  — 
Perhaps  that 's  why  ? 

JOHNNY. 

Do  you  know  why  that  man  that 's  got  a  cropped  head 

Rubbed  it  just  now  as  if  he  felt  a  fly  ? 

Could  it  be,  Bobby,  something  that  I  dropded  ? 

And  is  that  why  ? 

BOBBY. 

Good  boys  behaves,  and  so  they  don't  get  scolded, 
Nor  drop  hot  milk  on  folks  as  they  pass  by. 

johnny  (piously). 

Marbles  would  bounce  on  Mr.  Jones'  bald  head  — 
But  /shan't  try  ! 


ON  THE  LANDING. 


355 


BOBBY. 

Do  you  know  why  Aunt  Jane  is  always  snarling 

At  you  and  me  because  we  tells  a  lie, 

And  she  don't  slap  that  man  that  called  her  darling  ? 

Do  you  know  why  ? 

JOHNNY. 

No  more  I  don't,  nor  why  that  man  with  Mamma 
Just  kissed  her  hand. 

BOBBY. 

She  hurt  it  —  and  that 's  why, 
He  made  it  well,  the  very  way  that  Mamma 
Does  do  to  L 

JOHNNY. 

I  feel  so  sleepy.  .  .  .  Was  that  Papa  kissed  us  ? 
What  made  him  sigh,  and  look  up  to  the  sky  ? 

BOBBY. 

We  wer'n't  downstairs,  and  he  and  God  had  missed  us, 
And  that  was  why ! 


CADET  GREY. 


CANTO  I. 
I. 

Act  first,  scene  first.    A  study.    Of  a  kind 
Half  cell,  half  salon,  opulent  yet  grave  ; 

Kare  books,  low  shelved,  yet  far  above  the  mind 
Of  common  man  to  compass  or  to  crave  ; 

Some  slight  relief  of  pamphlets  that  inclined 
The  soul  at  first  to  trifling,  till  dismayed 

By  text  and  title  it  drew  back  resigned, 
Nor  cared  with  levity  to  vex  a  shade 
That  to  itself  such  perfect  concord  made. 

ii. 

Some  thoughts  like  these  preplexed  the  patriot  brain 
Of  Jones  —  Lawgiver  to  the  Commonwealth, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  this  chaste  domain 

He  paused  expectant,  and  looked  up  in  stealth 

To  darkened  canvases  that  frowned  amain, 


/ 


CADET  GREY. 


357 


With  stern-eyed  Puritans,  who  first  began 
To  spread  their  roots  in  Georgius  Primus*  reign, 
Nor  dropped  till  now,  obedient  to  some  plan, 
Their  century  fruit —  the  perfect  Boston  man. 

in. 

Somewhere  within  that  Russia-scented  gloom 
A  voice  catarrhal  thrilled  the  Member's  ear  : 
"  Brief  is  our  business,  Jones.    Look  round  this  room! 
Regard  yon  portraits  !    Read  their  meaning  clear  ! 

These  much  proclaim  my  station.    I  presume 
You  are  our  Congressman,  before  whose  wit 

And  sober  judgment  shall  the  youth  appear 

Who  for  West  Point  is  deemed  most  just  and  fit 
To  serve  his  country  and  to  honor  it." 

IV. 

u  Such  is  my  son  !    Elsewhere  perhaps  't  were  wise 
Trial  competitive  should  guide  your  choice. 
There  are  some  people  I  can  well  surmise 

Themselves  must  show  their  merits.  History's 
voice 

Spares  me  that  trouble,  all  desert  that  lies 
In  yonder  ancestor  of  Queen  Anne's  day, 

Or  yon  grave  Governor  —  is  all  my  boy's, 
Reverts  to  him;  entailed,  as  one  might  say; 
In  brief,  result  in  Winthrop  Adams  Grey  ! " 


358 


CADET  GREY. 


v. 

He  turned  and  laid  bis  well-bred  hand,  and  smiled, 
On  the  cropped  head  of  one  who  stood  beside. 

Ah  me  !  in  sooth  it  was  no  ruddy  child 

Nor  brawny  youth  that  thrilled  the  father's  pride  — 

'T  was  but  a  Mind  that  somehow  had  beguiled 
From  soulless  Matter  processes  that  served 

For  speech  and  motion  and  digestion  mild, 
Content  if  all  one  moral  purpose  nerved, 
Nor  recked  thereby  its  spine  were  somewhat  curved 

VI. 

He  was  scarce  eighteen.    Yet  ere  he  was  eight 
He  had  despoiled  the  classics ;  much  he  knew 

Of  Sanskrit ;  not  that  he  placed  undue  weight 
On  this,  but  that  it  helped  him  with  Hebrew, 

His  favorite  tongue.    He  learned,  alas  !  too  late, 
One  can't  begin  too  early  —  would  regret 

That  boyish  whim  to  ascertain  the  state 
Of  Venus'  atmosphere  made  him  forget 
That  philologic  goal  on  which  his  soul  was  set. 

VII. 

He  too  had  traveled  ;  at  the  age  of  ten 
Found  Paris  empty,  dull  except  for  art 

And  accent.    "  Mabille 99  with  its  glories  then 
Less  than  Egyptian  "  Almees  99  touched  a  heart 


CADET  GREY. 


359 


Nothing  if  not  pure  classic.    If  some  men 
Thought  him  a  prig,  it  vexed  not  his  conceit, 

But  moved  his  pity,  and  ofttimes  his  pen, 

The  better  to  instruct  them,  through  some  sheet 
Published  in  Boston,  and  signed  "  Beacon  Street/' 

VIII. 

From  premises  so  plain  the  blind  could  see 
But  one  deduction,  and  it  came  next  day. 

In  times  like  these,  the  very  name  of  G. 
Speaks  volumes,"  wrote  the  Honorable  J. 

Enclosed  please  find  appointment."  Presently 
Came  a  reception,  to  which  Harvard  lent 

Fourteen  professors,  and,  to  give  "  esprit" 
The  Liberal  Club  some  eighteen  ladies  sent, 
Five  that  spoke  Greek,  and  thirteen  sentiment. 

IX. 

iFour  poets  came  who  loved  each  other's  song, 
And  two  philosophers,  who  thought  that  they 

Were  in  most  things  impractical  and  wrong ; 
And  two  Reformers,  each  in  his  own  way 

Peculiar  —  one  who  had  waxed  strong 

On  herbs  and  water,  and  such  simple  fare  ; 

Two  foreign  lions,  "  Ram  See  "  and  "  Chy  Long," 
And  several  artists  claimed  attention  there, 
Based  on  the  fact  they  had  been  snubbed  elsewhere. 


360 


CADET  GREY. 


x. 

With  this  endorsement  nothing  now  remained 

But  counsel,  God  speed,  and  some  calm  adieux  ; 
No  foolish  tear  the  father's  eyelash  stained, 

And  Winthrop's  cheek  as  guiltless  shone  of  dew. 
A  slight  publicity,  such  as  obtained 

In  classic  Rome,  these  few  last  hours  attended. 
The  day  arrived,  the  train  and  depot  gained, 

The  mayor's  own  presence  this  last  act  commended ; 

The  train  moved  off,  and  here  the  first  act  ended, 


CANTO  II. 


Where  West  Point  crouches,  and  with  lifted  shield 
Turns  the  whole  river  eastward  through  the  pass : 

Whose  jutting  crags,  half  silver,  stand  revealed 
Like  bossy  bucklers  of  Leonidas  ; 

Where  buttressed  low  against  the  storms  that  wield 
Their  summer  lightnings  where  her  eaglets  swarm, 

By  Freedom's  cradle  Nature's  self  has  steeled 
Her  heart,  like  Winkelried,  and  to  that  storm 
Of  leveled  lances  bares  her  bosom  warm. 


CADET  GREY. 


361 


II. 

But  not  to-night.    The  air  and  woods  are  still, 

The  faintest  rustle  in  the  trees  below, 
The  lowest  tremor  from  the  mountain  rill, 

Come  to  the  ear  as  but  the  trailing  flow 
Of  spirit  robes  that  walk  unseen  the  hill ; 

The  moon  low  sailing  o'er  the  upland  farm, 
The  moon  low  sailing  where  the  waters  fill 

The  lozenge  lake,  beside  the  banks  of  balm, 

Gleams  like  a  chevron  on  the  river's  arm. 

in. 

W\  space  breathes  languor  ;  from  the  hill-top  high, 
Where  Putnam's  bastion  crumbles  in  the  past, 

To  swooning  depths  where  drowsy  cannon  lie 

And  wide-mouthed  mortars  gape  in  slumbers  vast ; 

Stroke  upon  stroke,  the  far  oars  glance  and  die 
On  the  hushed  bosom  of  the  sleeping  stream  ; 

Bright  for  one  moment  drifts  a  white  sail  by, 
Bright  for  one  moment  shows  a  bayonet  gleam 
Far  on  the  level  plain,  then  passes  as  a  dream. 

IV. 

Soft  down  the  line  of  darkened  battlements, 
Bright  on  each  lattice  of  the  barrack  walls, 

Where  the  low  arching  sallyport  indents, 

Seen  through  its  gloom  beyond,  the  moonbeam  falls. 


362 


CADET  GREY. 


All  is  repose  save  where  the  camping  tents 

Mock  the  white  gravestones  farther  on,  where  sound 

No  morning  guns  for  "  reveille,'"  nor  whence 

No  drum-beat  calls  retreat,  but  still  is  ever  found 
Waiting  and  present  on  each  sentry's  round. 

v. 

Within  the  camp  they  lie,  the  young,  the  brave, 
Half  knight,  half  school-boy,  acolytes  of  fame, 

Pledged  to  one  altar,  and  perchance  one  grave ; 
Bred  to  fear  nothing  but  reproach  and  blame, 

Ascetic  dandies  o'er  whom  vestals  rave, 

Clean-limbed  young  Spartans,  disciplined  young  elves, 

Taught  to  destroj^,  that  they  may  live  to  save, 
Students  embattled,  soldiers  at  their  shelves, 
Heroes  whose  conquests  are  at  first  themseWes. 

VI. 

Within  the  camp  they  lie,  in  dreams  are  freed 

From  the  grim  discipline  they  learn  to  love ; 
In  dreams  no  more  the  sentry's  challenge  heed, 

In  dreams  afar  beyond  their  pickets  rove  : 
One  treads  once  more  the  piney  paths  that  lead 

To  his  green  mountain  home,  and  pausing  hears 
The  cattle  call ;  one  treads  the  tangled  weed 

Of  slippery  rocks  beside  Atlantic  piers  ; 

One  smiles  in  sleep,  one  wakens  wet  with  tears. 


CADET  GREY. 


363 


One  scents  the  breath  of  jasmine  flowers  that  twine 
The  pillared  porches  of  his  Southern  home  ; 

One  hears  the  coo  of  pigeons  in  the  pine 

Of  Western  woods  where  he  was  wont  to  roam  ; 

One  sees  the  sunset  fire  the  distant  line 

Where  the  long  prairie  sweeps  its  levels  down  ; 

One  treads  the  snowpeaks ;  one  by  lamps  that  shine 
Down  the  broad  highways  of  the  sea-girt  town, 
And  two  are  missing  —  Cadets  Grey  and  Brown  ! 

VIII. 

Much  as  I  grieve  to  chronicle  the  fact, 

That  self-same  truant  known  as  "  Cadet  Grey" 

Was  the  young  hero  of  our  moral  tract, 

Shorn  of  his  twofold  names  on  entrance-day. 
"  Winthrop  "  and  "  Adams"  dropped  in  that  one  act 
Of  martial  curtness,  and  the  roll-call  thinned 

Of  his  ancestors,  he  with  youthful  tact 

Indulgence  claimed,  since  Winthrop  no  more  sinned, 
Nor  sainted  Adams  winced  when  he,  plain  Grey, 
was  4<  skinned." 

IX. 


He  had  known  trials  since  we  saw  him  last, 
By  sheer  good  luck  had  just  escaped  rejection* 


364 


CADET  GREY. 


Not  for  his  learning,  but  that  it  was  cast 

In  a  spare  frame  scarce  fit  for  drill  inspection ; 

But  when  he  ope'd  his  lips  a  stream  so  vast 
Of  information  flooded  each  professor, 

They  quite  forgot  his  eyeglass  —  something  past 
All  precedent  —  accepting  the  transgressor* 
Weak  eyes  and  all  of  which  he  was  possessor. 

x. 

E'en  the  first  day  he  touched  a  blackboard's  space  — 
So  the  tradition  of  his  glory  lingers  — 

Two  wise  professors  fainted,  each  with  face 
White  as  the  chalk  within  his  rapid  fingers : 

All  day  he  ciphered,  at  such  frantic  pace, 
His  form  was  hid  in  chalk  precipitation 

Of  every  problem,  till  they  said  his  case 
Could  meet  from  them  no  fair  examination 
Till  Congress  made  a  new  appropriation. 

XI. 

Famous  in  molecules,  he  demonstrated 

From  the  mess  hash  to  many  a  listening  classful ; 
Great  as  a  botanist,  he  separated 

Three  kinds  of  "  Mentha  "  in  one  julep's  glassful ; 
High  in  astronomy,  it  has  been  stated 

He  was  the  first  at  West  Point  to  discover 
Mars'  missing  satellites,  and  calculated 


CADET  GREY. 


365 


Their  true  positions,  not  the  heavens  over, 
But  'neath  the  window  of  Miss  Kitty  Rover. 

XII. 

Indeed,  I  fear  this  novelty  celestial 

That  very  night  was  visible  and  clear ; 
At  least  two  youths  of  aspect  most  terrestrial, 

And  clad  in  uniform,  were  loitering  near 
A  villa's  casement,  where  a  gentle  vestal 

Took  their  impatience  somewhat  patiently, 
Knowing  the  youths  were  somewhat  green  and  "  bes- 
tial "  — 

(A  certain  slang  of  the  Academy, 
I  beg  the  reader  won't  refer  to  me). 

XIII. 

For  when  they  ceased  their  ardent  strain,  Miss  Kitty 
Glowed  not  with  anger  nor  a  kindred  flame, 

But  rather  flushed  with  an  odd  sort  of  pity, 

Half  matron's  kindness,  and  half  coquette's  shame  ; 

Proud  yet  quite  blameful,  when  she  heard  their  ditty 
She  gave  her  soul  poetical  expression, 

And  being  clever,  too,  as  she  was  pretty, 

From  her  high  casement  warbled  this  confession  — 
Half  provocation  and  one  half  repression :  — 


366 


CADET  GREY. 


NOT  YET. 

Not  yet,  6  friend,  not  yet !  the  patient  stars 
Lean  from  their  lattices,  content  to  wait. 
All  is  illusion  till  the  morning  bars 
Slip  from  the  levels  of  the  Eastern  gate. 
Night  is  too  young,  O  friend!  day  is  too  near; 
Wait  for  the  day  that  maketh  all  things  clear. 
Not  yet,  O  friend,  not  yet! 

Not  yet,  O  love,  not  yet!  all  is  not  true, 
All  is  not  ever  as  it  seemeth  now. 
Soon  shall  the  river  take  another  blue, 
Soon  dies  yon  light  upon  the  mountain  brow. 
What  lieth  dark,  O  love,  bright  day  will  fill. 
Wait  for  thy  morning,  be  it  good  or  ill  — 
Not  yet,  O  love,  not  yet! 

XIV. 

The  strain  was  finished  ;  softly  as  the  night 
Her  voice  died  from  the  window,  yet  e'en  then 

Fluttered  and  fell  likewise  a  kerchief  white ; 
But  that  no  doubt  was  accident,  for  when 

She  sought  her  couch  she  deemed  her  conduct  quite 
Beyond  the  reach  of  scandalous  commentor  — 

Washing  her  hands  of  either  gallant  wight 
Knowing  the  moralist  might  compliment  her  — 
Thus  voicing  Siren  with  the  words  of  Mentor. 


CADET  GREY. 


367 


xv. 

She  little  knew  the  youths  below,  who  straight 
Dived  for  her  kerchief,  and  quite  overlooked 

The  pregnant  moral  she  would  inculcate  ; 

Nor  dreamed  the  less  how  little  Winthrop  brooked 

Her  right  to  doubt  his  soul's  maturer  state. 

Brown  —  who  was  Western,  amiable,  and  new  — 

Might  take  the  moral  and  accept  his  fate  ; 
The  which  he  did,  but,  being  stronger  too, 
Took  the  white  kerchief,  also,  as  his  due. 


XVI. 

They  did  not  quarrel,  which  no  doubt  seemed  queer 
To  those  who  knew  not  how  their  friendship  blended ; 

Each  were  opposed,  and  each  the  other's  peer, 
Yet  each  other  in  some  things  transcended. 

Where  Brown  lacked  culture,  brains  —  and  oft,  I  fear, 
Cash  in  his  pocket  —  Grey  of  course  supplied  him  ; 

Where  Grey  lacked  frankness,  force,  and  faith  sincere, 
Brown  of  his  manhood  suffered  none  to  chide  him, 
But  in  his  faults  stood  manfully  beside  him. 

XVIT. 

In  academic  walks  and  studies  grave, 

In  the  camp  drill  and  martial  occupation, 

They  helped  each  other  ;  but  just  here  I  crave 
Space  for  the  reader's  full  imagination  — 


368 


CADET  GREY. 


The  fact  is  patent,  Grey  became  a  slave  !  — ■ 
A  tool,  a  fag,  a  "  pleb  " !    To  state  it  plainer, 

All  that  blue  blood  and  ancestry  e'er  gave, 

Cleaned  guns,  brought  water !  —  was,  in  fact,  retainer 
To  Jones,  whose  uncle  was  a  paper-stainer  ! 

XVIII. 

How  they  bore  this  at  home  I  cannot  say  : 

I  only  know  so  runs  the  gossip's  tale. 
It  chanced  one  day  that  the  paternal  Grey 

Came  to  West  Point  that  he  himself  might  hail 
The  future  hero  in  some  proper  way 

Consistent  with  his  lineage.    With  him  came 
A  judge,  a  poet,  and  a  brave  array 

Of  aunts  and  uncles,  bearing  each  a  name, 

Eyeglass  and  respirator  with  the  same. 

XIX. 

"  Observe !  "  quoth  Grey  the  elder  to  his  friends, 

"  Not  in  these  giddy  youths  at  base-ball  playing 
You  '11  notice  Winthrop  Adams  !    Greater  ends 

Than  these  absorb  his  leisure.    No  doubt  straying 
With  Caesar's  Commentaries,  he  attends 

Some  Roman  council.    Let  us  ask,  however, 
Yon  grimy  urchin,  who  my  soul  offends 

By  wheeling  offal,  if  he  will  endeavor 

To  find—    What!  heaven!  Winthrop!    Oh!  no 
never  !  " 


CADET  GREY. 


xx. 

Alas !  too  true !    The  last  of  all  the  Greys 
Was  "  doing  police  detail ;  "  it  had  come 

To  this ;  in  vain  were  the  historic  bays 

That  crowned  the  pictured  Puritans  at  home  ! 

And  yet  't  was  certain  that  in  grosser  ways 

Of  health  and  physique  he  was  quite  improving. 

Straighter  he  stood,  and  had  achieved  some  praise 
In  other  exercise,  much  more  behooving 
A  soldier's  taste  than  merely  dirt  removing. 

XXI. 

But  to  resume  :  we  left  the  youthful  pair, 
Some  stanzas  back,  before  a  lady's  bower ; 

7Tis  to  be  hoped  they  were  no  longer  there, 
For  stars  were  pointing  to  the  morning  hour. 

Their  escapade  discovered,  ill  't  would  fare 
With  our  two  heroes,  derelict  of  orders  ; 

But,  like  the  ghost,  they  "  scent  the  morning  air," 
And  back  again  they  steal  across  the  borders, 
Unseen,  unheeded,  by  their  martial  warders. 


They  got  to  bed  with  speed :  young  'Grey  to  dream 
Of  some  vague  future  with  a  general's  star, 
24 


370 


CADET  GREY. 


And  Mistress  Kitty  basking  in  its  gleam ; 

While  Brown,  content  to  worship  her  afar, 
Dreamed  himself  dying  by  some  lonely  stream, 

Having  snatched  Kitty  from  eighteen  Nez  Perces, 
Till  a  far  bugle,  with  the  morning  beam, 

In  his  dull  ear  its  fateful  song  rehearses, 

Which  Winthrop  Adams  after  put  to  verses. 

XXIII. 

So  passed  three  years  of  their  novitiate, 

The  first  real  boyhood  Grey  had  ever  known. 

His  youth  ran  clear  —  not  choked  like  his  Cochituate, 
In  civic  pipes,  but  free  and  pure  alone  ; 

Yet  knew  repression,  could  himself  habituate 
To  having  mind  and  body  well  rubbed  down, 

Could  read  himself  in  others,  and  could  situate 
Themselves  in  him  —  except,  I  grieve  to  own, 
He  could  n't  see  what  Kitty  saw  in  Brown  ! 

XXIV. 

At  last  came  graduation  ;  Brown  received 
In  the  One  Hundredth  Cavalry  commission  ; 

Then  frolic,  flirting,  parting —  when  none  grieved 
Save  Brown,  who  loved  our  young  Academician, 

And  Grey,  who  felt  his  friend  was  still  deceived 
By  Mistress  Kitty,  who  with  other  beauties 

Graced  the  occasion,  and  it  was  believed 


CADET  GREY. 


371 


Had  promised  Brown  that  when  he  could  recruit  his 
Promised  command,  she'd  share  with  him  those 
duties. 

XXV. 

Howe'er  this  I  know  not ;  all  I  know, 

The  night  was  June's,  the  moon  rode  high  and 
clear, 

"  'T  was  such  a  night  as  this  "  —  three  years  ago 
Miss  Kitty  sang  the  song  that  two  might  hear. 
There  is  a  walk  where  trees  o'erarching  grow, 
Too  wide  for  one,  not  wide  enough  for  three 
(A  fact  precluding  any  plural  beau), 

Which  quite  explained  Miss  Kitty's  company, 
But  not  why  Grey  that  favored  one  should  be. 

XXVI. 

There  is  a  spring,  whose  limpid  waters  hide 
Somewhere  within  the  shadows  of  that  path 

Called  Kosciusko's.    There  two  figures  bide  — 
Grey  and  Miss  Kitty.    Surely  Nature  hath 

No  fairer  mirror  for  a  might-be  bride 

Than  this  same  pool  that  caught  our  gentle  belle 

To  its  dark  heart  one  moment.    At  her  side 

Grey  bent.    A  something  trembled  o'er  the  well, 
Bright,  spherical  —  a  tear  ?    Ah !  no,  a  button 
fell! 


372 


CADET  GREY. 


XXVII. 

"  Material  minds  might  think  that  gravitation," 

Quoth  Grey,  "  drew  yon  metallic  spheroid  down. 
The  soul  poetic  views  the  situation 

Fraught  with  more  meaning.    When  thy  girlish 
crown 

Was  mirrored  there,  there  was  disintegration 
Of  me,  and  all  my  spirit  moved  to  you, 

Taking  the  form  of  slow  precipitation  !  "  — 
But  here  came  "  Taps,"  a  start,  a  smile,  adieu ! 
A  blush,  a  sigh,  and  end  of  Canto  II. 

BUGLE  SONG. 

Fades  the  light,  Love,  good  night ! 

And  afar  Must  thou  go 

Goeth  day,  cometh  night  When  the  day 

And  a  star  And  the  light 

Leadeth  all,  Need  thee  so  — 

Speedeth  all  Needeth  all, 

To  their  rest!  Heedeth  all, 


That  is  best? 


CANTO  III. 


Where  the  sun  sinks  through  leagues  of  arid  sky, 
Where  the  sun  dies  o'er  leagues  of  arid  plain, 

Where  the  dead  bones  of  wasted  rivers  lie, 

Trailed  from  their  channels  in  yon  mountain  chain  j 


CADET  GREY. 


373 


Where  day  by  day  naught  takes  the  wearied  eye 
But  the  low-rirnming  mountains,  sharply  based 

On  the  dead  levels,  moving  far  or  nigh, 
As  the  sick  vision  wanders  o'er  the  waste, 
But  ever  day  by  day  against  the  sunset  traced : 

ii. 

There  moving  through  a  poisonous  cloud  that  stings 
With  dust  of  alkali  the  trampling  band 

Of  Indian  ponies,  ride  on  dusky  wings 
The  red  marauders  of  the  Western  land  ; 

Heavy  with  spoil,  they  seek  the  trail  that  brings 
Their  flaunting  lances  to  that  sheltered  bank 

Where  lie  their  lodges  ;  and  the  river  sings 
Forgetful  of  the  plain  beyond,  that  drank 
Its  life  blood,  where  the  wasted  caravan  sank. 

in. 

They  brought  with  them  the  thief  s  ignoble  spoil, . 

The  beggar's  dole,  the  greed  of  chiffonier, 
The  scum  of  camps,  the  implements  of  toil 

Snatched  from  dead  hands,  to  rust  as  useless  here ; 
All  they  could  rake  or  glean  from  hut  or  soil 

Piled  their  lean  ponies,  with  the  jackdaw's  greed 
For  vacant  glitter.    It  were  scarce  a  foil 

To  all  this  tinsel  that  one  feathered  reed 

Bore  on  its  barb  two  scalps  that  freshly  bleed ! 


374 


CADET  GREY. 


IV. 

They  brought  with  them,  alas  !  a  wounded  foe, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  yet  nursed  with  cruel  care, 

Lest  that  in  death  he  might  escape  one  throe 
They  had  decreed  his  living  flesh  should  bear : 

A  youthful  officer,  by  one  foul  blow 

Of  treachery  surprised,  yet  fighting  still 

Amid  his  ambushed  train,  calm  as  the  snow 
Above  him ;  hopeless,  yet  content  to  spill 
His  blood  with  theirs,  aud  fighting  but  to  kill. 

v. 

He  had  fought  nobly,  and  in  that  brief  spell 

Had  won  the  awe  of  those  rude  border  men 
Who  gathered  round  him,  and  beside  him  fell 

In  loyal  faith  and  silence,  save  that  when 
By  smoke  embarrassed,  and  near  sight  as  well, 

He  paused  to  wipe  his  eyeglass,  and  decide 
Its  nearer  focus,  there  arose  a  yell 

Of  approbation,  and  Bob  Barker  cried 

"Wade  in,  Dundreary  !  "  tossed  his  cap  and  —  died. 

VI. 

Their  sole  survivor  now  !  his  captors  bear 
Him  all  unconscious,  and  beside  the  stream 

Leave  him  to  rest ;  meantime  the  squaws  prepare 
The  stake  for  sacrifice  :  nor  wakes  a  gleam 


CADET  GREY. 


375 


Of  pity  in  those  Furies'  eyes  that  glare 
Expectant  of  the  torture  ;  yet  alway 

His  steadfast  spirit  shines  and  mocks  them  there 
With  peace  they  know  not,  till  at  close  of  day 
On  his  dull  ear  there  thrills  a  whispered  "  Grey  !  " 

VII. 

He  starts  !    Was  it  a  trick  ?    Had  angels  kind 

Touched  with  compassion  some   weak  woman's 
breast  ? 

Such  things  he 'd  read  of !    Faintly  to  his  mind 

Came  Pocahontas  pleading  for  her  guest. 
But  then  this  voice,  though  soft,  was  still  inclined 

To  baritone  !    A  squaw  in  ragged  gown 
Stood  near  him  frowning  hatred.    Was  he  blind  ? 

Whose  eye  was  this  beneath  that  beetling  frown? 

The  frown  was  painted,  but  that  wink  meant  — 
Brown  ! 

VIII. 

"  Hush !  for  your  life  and  mine !  the  thongs  are  cut," 
He  whispers ;  "  in  yon  thicket  stands  my  horse, 
One  dash  !  —  I  follow  close,  as  if  to  glut 

My  own  revenge,  yet  bar  the  others  course. 
Now  !  "    And 't  is  done.    Grey  speeds.    Brown  fol- 
lows but 

Ere  yet  they  reach  the  shade,  Grey,  fainting,  reels, 


376 


CADET  GREY. 


Yet  not  before  Brown's  circling  arms  close  shut 
His  in,  uplifting  him  !    Anon  he  feels 
A  horse  beneath  him  bound,  and  hears  the  rattling 
heels. 

IX. 

Then  rose  a  yell  of  baffled  hate,  and  sprang 

Headlong  the  savages  in  swift  pursuit ; 
Though  speed  the  fugitives,  they  hope  to  hang 

Hot  on  their  heels,  like  wolves,  with  tireless  foot. 
Long  is  the  chase :  Brown  hears  with  inward  pang 

The  short,  hard  panting  of  his  gallant  steed 
Beneath  its  double  burden  ;  vainly  rang 

Both  voice  and  spur.    The  heaving  flanks  may  bleed, 

Yet  comes  the  sequel  that  they  still  must  heed ! 

x. 

Brown  saw  it  —  reined  his  steed  ;  dismounting,  stood 

Calm  and  inflexible.    "  Old  chap  !  you  see 
There  is  but  one  escape.    You  know  it  ?    Good  ! 

There  is  one  man  to  take  it.  You  are  he, 
The  horse  won't  carry  double.    If  he  could, 

'T  would  but  protract  this  bother.    I  shall  stay  : 
I 've  business  with  these  devils  —  they  with  me ; 

I  will  occupy  them  till  you  get  away. 

Hush  !  quick  time,  forward.   There !   God  bless  you. 
Grey ! " 


CADET  GREY. 


377 


XI. 

But  as  he  finished,  Grey  slipped  to  his  feet, 

Calm  as  his  ancestors  in  voice  and  eye : 
You  do  forget  yourself  when  you  compete 

With  him  whose  right  it  is  to  stay  here  and  to  die : 
That 's  not  your  duty.    Please  regain  your  seat : 

And  take  my  orders  —  since  I  rank  you  here  !  — 
Mount  and  rejoin  your  men,  and  my  defeat 

Report  at  quarters.    Take  this  letter  ;  ne'er 

Give  it  to  aught  but  her,  though  death  should  inter- 
fere." 


And,  shamed  and  blushing,  Brown  the  letter  took 
Obediently  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket, 

Then  drawing  forth  another,  said,  "  I  look 

For  death  as  you  do,  wherefore  take  this  locket 

And  letter."    Here  his  comrade's  hand  he  shook 
In  silence.    "  Should  we  both  together  fall, 

Some  other  man  "  —  but  here  all  speech  forsook 
His  lips,  as  ringing  cheerily  o'er  all 
He  heard  afar  his  own  dear  bugle-call ! 


'T  was  his  command  and  succor,  but  e'en  then 
Grey  fainted,  with  poor  Brown,  who  had  forgot 


378  CADET  GREY. 

He  likewise  had  been  wounded,  and  both  men 
Were  picked  up  quite  unconscious  of  their  lot. 

Long  lay  they  in  extremity,  and  when 

They  both  grew  stronger,  and  once  more  exchanged 

Old  vows  and  memories,  one  common  "  den  " 
In  hospital  was  theirs,  and  free  they  ranged, 
Awaiting  orders,  but  no  more  estranged. 

XIV.  f 

And  yet 't  was  strange  —  nor  can  I  end  my  tale 
Without  this  moral,  to  be  fair  and  just : 

They  never  sought  to  know  why  each  did  fail 
The  prompt  fulfillment  of  the  other's  trust. 

It  was  suggested  they  could  not  avail 

Themselves  of  either  letter,  since  they  were 

Duly  dispatched  to  their  address  by  mail 
By  Captain  X.,  who  knew  Miss  Rover  fair 
Now  meant  stout  Mistress  Bloggs  of  Blank  Blank 
Square. 


